And the Autumn Moon Is Bright
by Michi the Killer
Summary: Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Lycanthropic HD, featuring werewolf!Draco. It's dark!crackfic. Or is it crack!darkfic? Who knows? Enjoy. DH compliant, except for epilogue.
1. I See Trouble On the Way

**And the Autumn Moon Is Bright**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One: I See Trouble On the Way**

**

* * *

**

Draco woke up on the third day, not knowing where he was. Of course, he didn't know that it was the third day, either.

At first, all he could see was white. It occurred to him that he was dead. He couldn't remember what happened but there were flashes of pain and red that pulsed when he tried to think about it. Perhaps it had been a fitting end.

He was lying on his side, in bed of some sort. Maybe this was Heaven, just rows upon rows of beds where you could sleep all day and rest and never have to do anything at all. Pretty soon the dessert serving would begin, cakes piled high on golden platters supported by dancing girls. Ah, that would be the life. Or the Afterlife, as the case may be.

After a moment, it occurred to him that the cotton sheets underneath him were starched stiff and of disgustingly low thread count. This couldn't be Heaven, he decided. Way too cheap. You wouldn't get a rash in Heaven.

"Malfoy? Are you...are you awake?"

It was a disembodied voice, very familiar, coming from what sounded like the other side of him. Draco didn't think he'd be addressed as Malfoy in the Afterlife.

Draco blinked, but he didn't move. "Yes. No. I'm not sure. I could be dreaming." His body seemed to hum and throb on its own; he felt very detached. "But actually, I think I'm dead."

"You're not dead," said the voice.

"Oh yeah? Care to make a wager of it? I'll bet you 50 Galleons and a racing broom." He rolled over onto his back – a bad move. He almost screamed with the pain that stabbed through him, hot and sharp and piercing, and he quickly flipped back onto his side. What did they do, line the bed with knives? It couldn't be Heaven. He had woken up in Hell.

"Hey! Watch it, you twit, you'll hurt yourself!" In an instant, the owner of the voice was hovering over him. It seemed to have acquired messy black hair, glasses, scar – Potter's familiar face stared down at him, drawn with concern.

Yeah, definitely Hell, definitely.

Draco looked up at him. It looked like Potter and sounded like Potter, but that was the point, wasn't it, to drive him insane? "Hullo demon," he greeted.

The extremely-Potterish being gave him a funny look. "Malfoy...?"

"That would be me. I guess you have my eternal soul to use as you please now." He tried moving again, experimentally, and he felt a distinct stabbing sensation almost immediately, all over his body, some sort of blade twisted in his guts, and he cried out. Maybe he was cursed with _Cruciatus_ every time he tried to move on his own? Interesting. Inventive. He had to give points for creativity to whoever this evil being happened to be, even if he had to take away points for actually _choosing_ to look like Potter.

"Malfoy, stop that! God! Don't you ever listen?"

Clearly not. He tried wiggling his fingers: needles and pinpricks. Ow. He shifted experimentally; someone twisted several knives in his intestines, OW. There were probably tiny demons nested inside him, armed with blades, carving him up like Christmas turkey.  
"Ow. Ow. _Ow_."

"I said stop! I'm...I'm going to get the mediwitch in here. Don't go anywhere."

Go anywhere? He couldn't move without putting himself in serious pain. This demon was just as stupid as the real Potter. Draco took great relish in telling him so.

"Real Potter?" The demon-thing looked confused. "But I _am_ the real Potter."

It was a wily one. Fortunately, Draco was wilier.

"Ha! That is exactly what you would like me to think, isn't it? Well, you may be good, demon-that-looks-like-Potter, but I am good-er." He looked triumphant.

Demonic Potter was looking even more befuddled, clearly, testament to Draco's genius.

"Harry? I heard voices..." Another demon! There were _more_ of them! This one looked like Granger. All he needed was Weasley and then he'd have the complete set in eternal torment. He shuddered, and Merlin damn it, that hurt, too.

"Yeah, Malfoy's up. I think his head got knocked about pretty bad, though..."

Granger gave him an appraising look. Draco looked down his nose at her the best he could, which was difficult at best, given that he was currently lying down on a bed. He thought he managed rather well, all things considering.

"I take it you're here to join in on the torture session," he said. "And you didn't even have the decency to go put on a corset and stilettos. Absolutely disgraceful."

The Potter-looking One blanched.

And my, who would have guessed that creatures of darkest evil blushed? "You're a very sick boy, Draco Malfoy," said the She-devil, "and I mean that in every way possible."

"They must have given him some drugs or sedatives or something. He keeps on calling me a demon."

"A clever ruse to try and distract me from the truth, you Potter-thing! I'm dead and this is Hell and you're both fiendish Hellspawn, here to punish me for my sins and transgressions and what not. I know the score."

"You're right, Harry. They must have given him some painkillers." She paused. "And if they haven't, maybe they should. We need to go get the mediwizard in here."

"Do you always spend so much time talking instead of torturing?" Draco inquired. "No wonder you keep people for all eternity."

"You're in the hospital, Malfoy, St. Mungo's to be exact," said the more female one. "Ugh, go get the Healer, Harry."

Draco contemplated whether female demon anatomy was similar to human female anatomy, or whether the one that looked like Granger had strange bits growing down there, and Potter had an orifice or two. Maybe something with teeth. He scared himself sometimes. Or maybe each one had both, or one had two sets...and did they perhaps lay eggs? He was still thinking up various permutations when they brought in the mediwizard.

This Healer was a young man, somewhat nervous, with thick glasses and patches of stubble, as if he were trying, valiantly, against the odds to grow a beard. He didn't seem to be a demon of any sort at all. He introduced himself as Logios Collins, M.W., which wasn't a very demonic-sounding name.

Listening to him, getting his vital signs taken, Draco was forced to concede that he wasn't dead. When they told him what happened, however, he knew he had been right all along, as he usually was – this was Hell.

* * *

"Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere."

"Does it hurt here?"

"Ow!"

"What about here?"

"_Bloody_—"

"And what-"

"Don't touch me!"

"Do you remember anything?"

_The meaty sound slapping sound wet sound the heat of his breath it smelled like meat like rot the back of my neck is wet is it saliva or blood_

"No."

"Nothing at all?"

_Mother screamed and Father didn't want to scream but they made him scream in the end didn't they not so proud now are you they laughed now as for the boy_

"No."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

_Everything hurts it hurts so bad they tore chunks out chunks and flesh and my back is all ribbons red red_

"I already told you, I don't remember anything!"

* * *

They had heard of the attack at Malfoy Manor right after it happened. It was chilling news in the afterglow of their celebrations, cold as the grave. It was proof that while the war may be over, there was still plenty of fighting left to do.

"No survivors," was the report that the Order had first given.

When Harry had heard the news, something sank deep inside of him, like a stone slipping into dark waters. The Malfoys were dead. Narcissa, who was a mother who loved her son, just as his has loved him. Draco. Even Lucius, who probably deserved every horrible thing that happened to him. Draco. Harry couldn't explain the feeling, but he lay awake for a long time that night, staring at the ceiling.

A day later Draco Malfoy was found, collapsed on the steps of St. Mungo's, ravaged and covered with blood. Mauled. That was the word for it, wasn't it, when you were all torn up like that. Perhaps he had Apparated there with the final reserves of his strength. Or perhaps some anonymous Good Samaritan had found him and left him there. Or perhaps, and in a more ominous perhaps, whoever did it to him had wanted him to survive, for whatever reason.

Draco Malfoy, Survivor Extraordinaire.

"Like a cockroach!" Ron had offered, helpfully. "Or a cold. No cure for it."

What was the use of saving someone's life if they were just going to get themselves nearly killed the very next day? It was ingratitude at its worst. Harry decided to go to St. Mungo's and tell him exactly that; somebody had to reprimand him.

They had placed him in Intensive Care; the ward was locked. A pretty, young receptionist sat at a desk with REGISTRATION in glowing letters across the front. She wore bright blue eyeshadow and was chewing gum.

She was reading the latest issue of Witches' Weekly. Harry saw, with no small amount of horror, that a photo of him was on the cover: battle-worn and covered with dirt, blinking nervously at what had been the photographers' flashing bulbs.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I need to see somebody. I have reason to believe that he's a patient here."

"Are you family?" she asked, without looking up from her magazine.

Harry hesitated. "A...a friend," he finally replied. It sounded lame. "A close friend," he amended. "The closest."

"Patient name?" she asked, still reading her magazine.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Sorry, family only," she replied in a bored tone. She turned the page.

"You don't understand, it's very important."

"Family only. Rules are rules."

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I don't think you understand..."

"And I don't think _you_ understand—" she began, irritated from having to put down her magazine. And then she looked at the cover of Witches' Weekly. And then she looked at Harry. Back at the magazine. Back at Harry. "H-Harry Potter!" she stuttered.

"Yes," confirmed Harry, slightly abashed.

"Can I get your autograph?"

Harry sighed and was about to refuse when it came to him.

"Can I get into the unit?"

"You know, we're really not supposed to..." She bit her lip coyly, looking up at him through the lashes. "You're a lot taller in real life than in your pictures."

"Yes, well..." He cleared his throat. "I'm a lot bigger, too." She gave him A Look and he blushed, not exactly sure what that implied. "C-Could you possibly let me in?"

"Oooh, what are you going to do for me?" For a moment Harry wondered vaguely if she had been in Slytherin. She leaned forward, putting her breasts on the desk. She squeezed her elbows together, making her cleavage even deeper. "Hm, I know. How about a kiss?"

"What!"

"Just a little one, okay?" she pouted.

Harry scrunched his eyes shut and dropped a reluctant kiss on her cheek. She squealed with girlish delight, her voice reaching a pitch intended for canine ears, but not for humans'.

"Go on in, then, Mr Potter," she said happily."Don't be a stranger."

"Urm...yeah. See you later, then."

* * *

But it turned out that he wasn't a stranger, after all.

The first day he saw Malfoy on the hospital bed, unconscious. He somehow looked paler than should have been possible, small and fragile on stark white sheets. His face was pinched together, a frozen expression of pain, as if some cruel hand had taken his features and pulled them all into points. One eye was swollen shut, his cheek bruised. Harry had never seen that colour before – a literal purple, the colour of an eggplant. He didn't look like himself at all.

And were those imprints of fingers on his throat?

His chest was bandaged – so were his arms, and one leg up to the calf, both thighs. Some of the bandages were red or brownish in spots where the blood had leaked through.

Malfoy didn't move. His chest rose and fell, but just barely.

Harry left right away.

He was back the next day, however. And the day after that, and the day after that Malfoy woke up and accused him of being a demon.

* * *

The words were clinical. Victim. Assaulted. Question of amnesia. Post-traumatic. Lycanthrope.

Logios Collins, M.W., was a young man who was probably only just learning how to break bad news. Fortunately for him, he would get a lot of experience, these days.

"As you probably already know, this means that, from now on, you will be...ah..."

Howling at the moon.

"You...ah..."

Could get fleas.

"erm..."

Need to be taken on walks.

"I'm going to be cursed for the rest of my unnatural, wretched, wolfy existence," Draco supplied helpfully.

The Healer's mouth was a grim line as he simply nodded.

Draco threw back his head and laughed. Life was too funny. He'd have to invest in a good razor and some shaving cream. He could even maybe give Logios Collins, M.W., beard-growing tips.

This idea amused him so much that he laughed and laughed and he was still laughing when the Healer, afraid, put him under sedation.

* * *

It wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for him, Harry knew.

It was all his fault.

His shoulders drooped with the blame; it felt like stones piling up on his back, heavier and heavier. Harry wanted to put his head in his hands and wonder when it was ever going to end. If ever.

There had been three of them, with probably only one wand among them. If even that. Although they were powerful in their own right, wandless magic can only get you so far, especially if you're faced with an entire _army_ of-

"Who's his next of kin?" the Healer had asked him, on his second visitation day.

They're dead, Harry thought. They're all dead. Mother, Father, Aunt, cousin...With the possible exception of...

"Yes, I most certainly am family," he heard a woman's voice saying. He turned to see Andromeda Tonks in front of Malfoy's room, speaking to a nurse.

"Mrs. Tonks?" he asked hesitantly.

Andromeda Tonks turned at the sound of his voice; her face looked puffy, eyes bloodshot from weeping. She wore all black, from head to toe, black shoes, black gown, black robes, a hat with a veil. It made sense, after all – she had a lot of mourning to do. A widow's garb, a widow's sorrow. The wrinkles showed in her puckered brow, the lines around her eyes.

"Oh, Harry!" she said. "What a surprise to see you here. Are you here to see...?"

"Malfoy. I mean, Draco."

"Oh," she said. "I never knew that you were friends."

Harry thought of disabusing her of the notion, but then couldn't find a good reason to explain why he was there. "Guilt" didn't seem good enough. "Ah, yes, well..."

"It's really a shame, what happened...Such a horrible shame..." Mrs. Tonks stifled a sob and rummaged around her bag for a handkerchief. "Excuse me." Unable to find one, she tore the leaf off a potted plant and Transfigured it into a box of tissues.

"Mrs. Tonks?"

"I...liked Cissy, you know. She was my favourite sister. Even after I met Ted...Of course, she didn't speak to me anymore, as nobody did, and I didn't care; I was young and in love. And she never answered my letters..." The idea of unanswered letters seemed to set her on another crying jag, and she sobbed into her tissues.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, looking at the floor. He wondered if he should try to soothe her or not, if he could even comfort her at all. "Yeah," he mumbled. "It's difficult..."

"B-but sometimes she wrote. A postcard here and there. A Christmas card. Several pictures of Draco." She lifted her face to smile wanly at Harry. A teardrop slid down next to that thin, fragile smile. "He was a cute baby, you know. Precious."

The idea of Draco Malfoy ever having been a baby, never mind a cute one, bothered him so much that he shook his head. Mrs. Tonks mistook it for sadness and nodded sympathetically.

"Do you know that for years I have been hoping that we could bury that old hatchet?" She sniffed loudly, dabbing her eyes. "And it seemed...possible. Feasible. Now that things are the way they are now. Now that...things are over now. The way things are - have changed so much. We have been through so much. But now..."

The 'we'll never get to' hung unspoken in the air, or perhaps it was lost into a tissue. Harry swallowed again and awkwardly placed what he hoped to be a comforting hand on Mrs. Tonks's shoulder.

"I don't think Cissy ever hated me. Not the way Bella did," she sighed, wiping away tears from her reddened eyes. "And even Bella and I, we used to have our good times...The way that she used to catch the bunnies to make me laugh...She Transfigured the funniest things out of them! A lot of furry hats and garters." Mrs. Tonks smiled at the memory.

Harry smiled at her and tried not to be too disturbed.

"But now they're both gone, they're all gone, I just don't- I just can't—" She broke down into tears again. The used tissues hovered magically in the air as she discarded them, like a flock of crumpled little birds.

"I'm sorry," Harry managed.

"Oh, don't be, don't say that, it's not your fault –"

_Yes, it is._

"And you saved us all, didn't you, Harry? You're such a good boy." She sighed, using a Vanishing spell on the small mountain of used tissues she had created. "Let's go in to see him, now shall we?"

* * *

They had stood at Draco's bedside for a while, neither of them speaking. Harry couldn't help thinking, at the time, that Draco didn't look too much better, and was seized with the thought that he would never wake up.

It felt cold inside Harry's chest.

"He's eighteen years old, you know? And this is the first time I've ever seen him," Mrs. Tonks said quietly. She laughed bitterly. "I don't even know the first thing about him."

They both watched him, slowly breathing. Harry could feel his own breath caught in his throat, matching each rise and fall of Malfoy's bandaged-up chest, bobbing slowly, sadly, up and down.

"He likes Quidditch. He's really very competitive. He stands out. He has a short temper," Harry said suddenly. Once he started, he couldn't stop, babbling to fill the silence, anything but that awful, suffocating silence that had filled up their throats: "People followed him around. He makes them laugh. He was the Seeker for Slytherin since his second year. He was a brutal Quidditch Captain. He excelled in Potions. Snape was his favourite teacher. He took Pansy Parkinson to the Yule Ball fourth year. They were together for a short time, in sixth year. He was a Slytherin Prefect..."

Mrs. Tonks smiled at him, a beautiful expression in its sudden and genuine happiness. "Thank you, Harry. You two must have been good friends."

"Well...er..." said Harry, who hadn't mean to go quite _that_ far.

"You know so much about him."

"Yeah," Harry said lamely, not knowing what else to say.

"Is Draco nice? Cissy could be ever so sweet, sometimes...when she wanted something from you." Mrs. Tonks laughed a little, and the laughing looked like it was about to start another round of crying.

"Uhhhh..."

A knock at the door saved Harry from further awkward conversation. They turned to see a young mediwizard with a clipboard. He had spectacles and the beginning scribbles of a beard on his chin.

"Draco Malfoy's family?" he queried.

"Yes," affirmed Mrs. Tonks.

He nodded. "Hello, I'm Logios Collins, M.W."

"Andromeda Tonks," said Mrs. Tonks. "Call me Andy. Or Dromeda. I'm Draco's aunt." He reached out and shook her hand.

Then he looked expectantly at Harry, and Harry realised that he was being included in the term "family."

"Hi," Harry said, "I'm –"

"Yes, I know," the mediwizard smiled back at him and shook his hand firmly. "Don't you worry, Mr. Potter, I'll fix up your friend right and proper for you."

Harry managed a smile back.

"Well, I have some good news for the two of you," he continued, "It looks like Draco here is on his way to a full and speedy recovery."

Harry let out a breath he didn't know that he'd been holding. Mrs. Tonks reached over and gave him a hug, and so he found himself hugging her back.

"Thank Merlin, thank Heaven, thank God..." Mrs. Tonks was saying.

"His wounds are healing exceptionally quickly," Logios continued. "Of course, that is a characteristic of lycanthropy."

"Lycanthropy?" They both said in unison.

"Yes, I'm afraid," sighed Logios. "Draco has been the unfortunate victim of a werewolf attack."

Mrs. Tonks's face went extremely pale. Harry felt vaguely sick, just looking at her.

"He suffered a lot of trauma to various regions of his body...scars on his stomach show where the claws had dug in...And...we have reason to believe...he appears to have been, erm, ah...severely assaulted...in multiple ways," the young mediwizard continued. "It wasn't just an attack, it was...torture."

"Stop...I don't think I want to hear anymore." Harry thought that was a very tactless thing to say, and when would he learn to stop blurting out his feelings, when he realised, a split second later, that it had been Mrs. Tonks who said it.

"Erm," said Logios, going pink. "That's er...quite all right. I imagine this is all rather difficult..."

"_That's_ not an understatement in the least," muttered Mrs. Tonks.

"...but what is important for you to know, as his friends and family, is that Draco has been through massive trauma, both physical and mental. He could be emotionally volatile when he wakes up. He could be...damaged."

"Damaged?" asked Mrs. Tonks, her voice sounding detached.

"Yes," said Logios. "He might not be the same person you know and love. This is the kind of trauma that changes a person."

A stupid part of Harry said that any change in Malfoy would be for the better, but he wasn't so sure that that was true.

"It...may scar him. Deeply,and permanently." Logios cleared his throat uncomfortably. "And, given his new...status...this can lead to many problems." He shifted his tie. "Physically, Draco will be perfectly fine, maybe even in better physical condition than before. He's healing very well, don't you worry about that. However, he is potentially dangerous, considering the circumstances of his attack. He may be of age, but we cannot discharge him without someone to take responsibility for his care. He needs a guardian, a support network, loved ones. Without them..." The Healer looked down, scratched at his small patch of beard, before adjusting his glasses and looking back up at them.

"Well, without them, there is a possibility that he may create more victims like himself."

"I see," Mrs. Tonks said faintly.

"He cannot live alone, do you understand? He cannot be alone. As we know, lycanthropy can be treated with the Wolfsbane potion, but he cannot be trusted to be responsible for himself.

"It would also be very unhealthy for him to be alone. More than anything, he needs emotional support..."

Mrs. Tonks nodded.

"Are you his next of kin, Andy?"

"Yes..." said Mrs. Tonks. "His only surviving blood relative, actually...The Houses of Malfoy and Black..." she trailed off. Harry could almost see the bodies in front of her eyes, the graves and their markers, the filling family plot.

"I see," Logios said. "And, do you think you could possibly take Draco in?"

"Mediwizard Collins, you are putting me in a very difficult position here," Mrs. Tonks sighed. "I have an infant grandson to take care of. I am recently widowed. I have lost...my daughter and my son-in-law."

"Well, if you are willing, there is another option," said Logios. "We could do something with him. Keep him here, under observation. There have been very few studies done on werewolves, which is quite unfortunate...it's all very fascinating, really."

There was a gleam in his eyes now, as he glanced over Draco's body in bed. It was one full of mania and inspiration and you wanted to talk about unhealthy? That was unhealthy. Harry bristled.

"Where would you keep him?" Harry asked, his voice clipped.

"We have a special ward." Logios smiled. It was supposed to be reassuring, Harry was sure.

"A special ward? For werewolves...?"

"No. Not exactly, Mr Potter." Logios smiled indulgently. _Maniac_, Harry's brain supplied. "For people with unfortunately incurable afflictions..."

Harry thought suddenly of Gilderoy Lockhart, with his simple, confused smile and scrambled brains. He thought of Neville's parents, with their deep, empty eyes.

"No," Harry shook his head vehemently. "That's not an option."

"Oh, it would only be temporary, of course, at least until he's stable and can be trusted to take care of himself. You are welcome to visit him during visiting hours, even every day, if you so choose. He would be discharged once he was determined not to be a danger to himself or to society. Of course, there is always the chance that he will never return to full capacity..."

Logios didn't seem to be as disappointed by this prospect as a compassionate human being should have been. Probably salivating over the thought of having his very own pet werewolf, one to run cruel and sadistic experiments on in the noble names of Advancement and Progress...

_Psycho maniac pervert!_ Harry's brain screamed.

"No. Not a chance," said Harry firmly.

"Ah, yes, well...it is obviously far more preferable to place him in some sort of home situation, with healthy familial relationships and bonds..." Logios backtracked.

Harry's eyes narrowed. He wasn't fooled. "Yes, yes it is."

"I'll leave you two to discuss this, then, shall I? You don't have to make a decision right away. After all," Logios nodded to the pale figure lying in bed, "you may want to wait until he wakes up. There's no telling what he'll be like."

* * *

"On a scale of one to ten, one being the least amount of pain, ten being the worst pain you've ever felt, how would you rate your pain right now?"

"Twelve."

"I see. Well, I just need to check on this wound here..."

_He's so big so big all claws and teeth claws and teeth claws_

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

A thud. Someone cried out. Screams. Panic.

_Did you see what they did to Mum and Dad Mum and Dad Mum and Dad Mum Mum Mum Mum yum_

"Leave me alone. _Leave me alone_."

* * *

Malfoy had thrown the mediwizard against the wall. It hadn't been intentional. A burst of wandless magic and Logios Collins, M.W., was on the floor, shaking his head, and Malfoy was shaking. Nurses and other staff had rushed in, and Harry ran, as well, having heard the commotion.

"Post-traumatic stress," they said.

"Leave me alone," Malfoy was saying. "Leave me alone."

His eyes were large and dark, taking in everything and seeing nothing - wild. One bandaged arm wrapped around himself. He looked lost.

_He might be...damaged._

"Get the restraints," one nurse hissed.

"Leave me alone," Malfoy said. "Leave me alone." He was shaking, trembling, and Harry was pretty sure that that nurse was going to end up thrown across the room next. He took in a rush of air but could not say anything.

Malfoy seemed to focus, just then, and his large grey eyes settled on Harry, the only familiar face in the room. Harry never thought that Malfoy would ever actually look _relieved_ to see him, but there was no other word for that expression.

"Malfoy..." Harry said. "Are you okay?"

"He...he touched me," Malfoy explained lamely.

"Wow," said Harry. "What a bastard."

Malfoy looked at him for a moment. Then, suddenly, he laughed. It was almost a pleasant sound.

* * *

"I'm his aunt. I'm his only blood relative. I know I should take him in but I can't..." Mrs. Tonks sighed over her cup of tea. It cost a couple of knuts in the hospital cafeteria. It wasn't very good tea. "I don't know, Harry, I just don't know."

"Yeah," said Harry. They sat side-by-side in the Family Waiting Room. It was white, and the walls were covered with abstract shapes in pastel colours that gently changed from time to time. Soothing, slow music played in the background. The coffee table was covered with magazines, some of them with images of himself, blinking back at him.

"I can't do it on my own. Maybe if Ted...or-or even Dora..." she broke off again. "I wish I were that strong." She tried on a weak smile. "Mother always said, Bella is the strong one, Cissy is the smart one, and Andy...Andy is the reckless, emotional one."

"That's not...a bad thing," Harry offered.

_After all, you're still alive, aren't you?_

"The point, Harry. The point is that I do want to care for Draco and I care about him. He's the only thing left of Cissy. I don't know him, but he is my nephew. I should take care of him, right? I should love him, right?"

She angrily ripped open a sugar packet, spilling the sugar everywhere.

"Oh, Merlin, what a mess," she said irritably. "Clumsy me, again."

She was certainly the most inelegant of the Black sisters. But sometimes she looked dignified, and when she did, Harry could see some of the regal attitude of Narcissa.

"I'm not as young as I used to be, Harry." She sighed. "I wish I had the energy I used to, but I am very, very tired these days...Teddy is my responsibility now, and you know I can't provide for Draco nor should he be in a home with such a young child, given his new...condition."

Harry remembered, how Lupin had been upset, had said something about how Tonks's parents did not approve of her marrying a werewolf.

"No...you're right about that," he slowly agreed.

"Maybe Collins is right. Maybe we could let him stay under the professional care of St. Mungo's staff. It might not be so bad."

She stirred a new packet of sugar into her tea, and then looked into her cup, as if she were trying to convince her tea and not Harry.

"We could visit him every day, you and me. And what about his school chums? I'm sure they'd want to, too..."

His school friends. Crabbe, dead. Goyle, the son of a Death Eater, likely to face trial. Pansy Parkinson, who had wanted to hand him over to the Dark Lord.

Harry stared back into his own blinking, dirty face from the cover of _Worldly Worthy Wizards_.

"Was he a popular boy, Harry? Lucius had most of the student body and half the staff eating out of his hand by sixth year. And every girl wanted to be Cissy." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "Including me."

"Um...He was very...well-known," Harry finally offered. "And his friends...his friends would follow him anywhere."

Even into the hands of the Dark Lord.

"You're such a very good boy, Harry," Mrs. Tonks sighed. "Draco is so lucky to have a good friend like you."

Harry took a big gulp of his tea. It burned his throat a bit. The stinging pain didn't detract from the burning feeling in his stomach.

Mrs. Tonks looked at him thoughtfully, for a moment, then she turned away, sighing. "I don't suppose...no, that would be asking too much of you."

"What?"

She shook her head, as if shaking the thought out. "No. Forget it. Forget I ever said anything." She sighed again, a drawn-out, mournful sound.

"Mrs. Tonks, what is it? Go ahead, tell me."

"Well...I know, it is asking a lot, but you don't suppose that you could...No, I can't say it."

"I could what?"

"No, it's asking far, far too much."

"I could take care of Draco?"

"Oh, Harry!" Her blue eyes filled with tears. "You're such a noble, caring, very good boy!" Her tea magically disappeared as she threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses. She pulled back and looked at him, eyes shining and jewel-like. "Do you really mean it?"

"Um..."

"Draco is so lucky to have a friend like you. No, I am so lucky to know you. You have no idea what this means to me. Absolutely no idea." She sighed, heartwrenchingly. "Draco is one of two family members left to me. And now I can relax, knowing that he will be in good, caring hands."

And how could Harry say no to that, how could he say no to her? How could he say that that wasn't what he meant? That it had been the furthest thing on his mind, and was in fact his greatest fear?

Especially when he was the entire reason why Malfoy was in this predicament to begin with?

"Don't you worry about a thing, you sweet, sweet, darling boy. I'll help make the arrangements. You're staying at the Burrow, yes? I'll speak to Molly. I'll take care of everything."

As Harry nodded numbly, he realised how stupid he had been. He had let his guard down. He had been lulled into a false sense of security, and in the emotions, had allowed himself to forget that Andromeda Tonks was once Andromeda Black, sister to Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange.

* * *

Ron and Hermione arrived almost immediately after Andromeda left.

"Harry, are you daft, mate? You-Know-Who hit your head with some sort of damaging curse?"

"Harry, you can't be serious about this..."

"I know! I know! It's not like I have a choice, okay?"

The conversation had been going on in this vein for the better part of an hour. Harry was developing a headache. Maybe he had been cursed with one last thing before Voldemort had died.

"What do you mean, you don't have a choice!" cried Ron. "You always have a choice! You could always owl her and tell her, no, you can't, you changed your mind, your best friend will murder you!"

"Ron," Hermione said gently, "Harry is just being noble. You don't need to say that."

"You're right, Hermione," Ron agreed. "I shouldn't blame Harry. Harry, you tell Mrs. Tonks that your best friend will murder HIM! So he isn't safe. There!"

"Ron," Harry sighed. "She's already convincing your mum. And if she talks to her the way that she did to me, I can guarantee that she'll say yes."

_"What?_" Ron exploded. "Betrayed by my own mother! Letting scum into our house...letting the enemy infiltrate! And what do you mean, the way she talked to you? Did she cast Imperius on you? She _did_ used to be Narcissa Malfoy's and Bellatrix's Lestrange sister, you know..."

"RON!" reprimanded Hermione, absolutely scandalised. "Mrs. Tonks has been nothing but wonderful to us, and she lost Tonks and Remus and her husband! Would it kill you to be a little more sensitive?" She huffed. "Besides, I'm sure if you trace it back far enough, all you Pureblooded families are related somehow anyway. You're probably even related to the Malfoys, yourself."

"What!" cried Ron. "I lost my brother! Don't _talk_ to me about sensitive!"

"Then you should understand!" Hermione countered.

"You should, Ron," Harry said quietly. "Malfoy lost both his parents."

Ron took in a breath, through his teeth, and huffed it back out, angrily, but he didn't say anthing.

"Harry," Hermione turned to him now, her voice a bit more gentle, "I know you want to save everybody, it's in your nature, you're a good person...but you don't have any responsibility towards him..."

"I do..." Harry sighed. "Look, the Elder Wand was Malfoy's wand, and I had it, all right? And his mum's wand was destroyed in the Room of Requirement. That means, at most, they had one wand among them, and then they go home, expecting to be safe, and instead they find a whole horde of Dark Creatures—"

"Harry, there's no way you could have predicted that. You killed Voldemort, we couldn't have expected an uprising of his followers, you can't possibly think—"

"That's exactly it, Hermione, we didn't think! We didn't think about the consequences, we thought that once the Dark Lord was dead the War was over and we would all be okay, because we had won! But that isn't true!"

"Harry, you did what you could! So what if you had given Malfoy the Elder Wand, and then what? What if Lucius had used it against you so he could be the New Dark Lord, or what if Malfoy used it against you, even, or someone had killed him for it...There are so many 'what ifs'! You don't owe them anything!"

"I...I do, Hermione. Narcissa Malfoy lied to Voldemort when she said I was dead, and I wasn't. I had the element of surprise on my side. And he might have killed me, right then, when I was lying on the ground...She didn't have to, but she did."

Ron, interjected, "And you saved her son's life in the Room of Requirement. You didn't have to, you don't even like the git, but you did!"

"She saved me for his sake. She loved him, Ron, Hermione, enough to risk anything...J-just like my own mum. And now, he's lost her. His father, too. He doesn't have anybody."

He didn't have anybody at all, nobody to go back to, no home to go home to. It was the sort of overwhelming loneliness that made you feel locked in a cupboard with only spiders and the creaking stairs at night.

"Harry," Hermione said gently, "You can't save everybody."

"No, I can't," Harry said, even though inside he could hear the voice that said, _I should, I should be able to, I should protect everybody, it's what I have to do_, "but I can do this. And I should do what I can, right? If I can make things better, why not?"

"Well," Hermione admitted, "I'm not happy about it, but I do feel bad for him."

"Easy for you to say, he's not going to be living in YOUR house!" Ron cried, unable to deny himself at least one more outburst.

"Oh, Ron, just be quiet okay? We're all doing the best we can."

The best we can, Harry thought. Not exactly. But certainly, the best way that he knew how.

* * *

For the past two days, Malfoy had refused to see anybody, sometimes even throwing the Healers out of the room. He didn't want to talk about anything, he told them, and on a scale of one to ten his pain was thirteen and rising, and he wanted to be left alone and untouched.

Harry forced his way in regardless, and refused to leave even when he was screamed at. "Go away," Malfoy had told him, over and over, "I don't want to see you."

Harry had stayed.

The blonde had lain on the bed, turned away from, refusing to acknowledge his presence. He had made it clear that he was in no mood to talk. Harry didn't speak, but sat in the chair next to the bed and watched over him until visiting hours were over.

"I can't believe you're still here," Malfoy had said finally, after another day or so of this. "Go on then, tell me what's so important that it has you haunting me all this time."

Harry told him.

"I'm not a bloody charity case," Malfoy bit out.

The blonde was sitting up in bed now, his system full of painkillers and a draught of pain-relieving potion. They weren't sedatives, however, and Harry wished they were, because Malfoy looked on the verge of attack. Animal tranquilisers would be perhaps be helpful, too.

"I never said you were!"

"Right, and you want to take me in because you like me so much, is that it?" Malfoy sneered. He fixed Harry with a cold grey stare. "Because you care about my health and well-being? Because we're such good friends?"

"..."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"Look Malfoy," Harry gritted his teeth. "I don't have much choice. Your Aunt Andromeda asked me—"

"I have never met that daft woman in my entire life! And to be honest, I don't have a very high opinion of her, if she thinks placing me in _your_ so-called 'care' is a good idea!"

A nurse poked her head in to see the cause of the commotion. She(?) was less a woman and more a human boulder dressed in white - big and muscular, Millicent Bulstrode in about ten, fifteen years, maybe. Her uniform was starched and crisp. Her arms were probably the size of Harry's head.

"NO EXCITING THE PATIENT!" She bellowed at Harry in a deep, booming voice.

"Yes, sir—er, Ma'am!" Harry squeaked.

"AND YOU," she glared at Draco, "DON'T BE SO PRONE TO EXCITEMENT!"

"Yes, Nurse Bottram," Draco said obediently. She looked at them both, glared for a minute more, and then swept out, slamming the door behind her.

"And there goes a whole lot of woman," he remarked. "Exeunt the Battering Ram. I hate it when she's on duty. God, I need to get out of here."

"You want to get out of here?" Harry hissed. "Good, because they won't discharge you unless you agree. And there's nobody else who would take you."

"I can't leave unless I leave with you? Merlin, that's rich. So, you're basically saying I can either go live with you or maybe I'll die on the streets. I'm loving my list of options, here."

"You won't go die on the streets."

"I should certainly hope not."

"The other option is that they move you."

"Move me? Where?"

"To another unit. To those afflicted with Incurable Conditions..."

A man two beds over was moaning. He was missing an eye and an arm. Hit with a barrage of hexes, they said. Outside the room, a stretcher rolled by, with another man twisting on it. His face was covered with bandages, he was bloody all over.

"Stuck in a hospital full of loonies and the disfigured, wonderful."

"It would only be temporary," Harry assured him. "Unless, of course, they decide you're unsafe."

"And who decides that?"

"The mediwizard who wants to keep you and run sadistic experiments for his new research project on werewolves."

"Oh, abso-bloody-lutely! What better way to spend my time?" He looked at Harry now, scrutinising. "What makes you so sure that I won't run away from you?"

"And just where would you run away to?" Harry asked, irritated.

They both thought the same thing, he was sure, crossing off the list of places in their minds. Malfoy Manor: X. Hogwarts: X. Relatives's homes: X.

"I could escape into the Muggle World," Malfoy said defiantly, raising his chin. "Start a new life. You'd never find me!"

"Interesting. What would you do, as a Muggle?"

"Be famous and fabulously wealthy, of course."

"Doing what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Malfoy waved the hand of his good arm dismissively. "Whatever it is Muggles worship people for. Selling appliances. Making music. Tap-dancing. Travelling around in fancy cars. Being looked at and admired. I'll be famous for being famous."

"I see," Harry's mouth twisted. "But wouldn't that make you easy to find?"

"You really are as stupid as you look, aren't you? I'd disguise myself, you twit," he paused. "I might even dye my hair. Yes, my wonderful, beautiful hair. It would be a tragedy, for sure. I have loved thee these past years: you have served me faithfully, and well. But it must be a sacrifice that I am willing to take."

"So you would go live with Muggles."

"Yes."

"Whom you hate."

"Yes."

"Instead of coming with me."

"You can't place a price on freedom," Malfoy said.

Harry fell silent.

"Checkmate," Malfoy said smugly, although what the hell he had to be smug about, Harry didn't know.

"You couldn't get very far, anyway," Harry said quietly. It was surprising, how hard the words seemed to be. He didn't feel good about them at all. "They...recorded your new magical signature. It's unique to you. They have these new Tracing Charms now..."

"WHAT?" Malfoy exploded. "You mean they want to _TAG_ me? Like an ANIMAL?" His voice rose with each increasing syllable.

_Well...aren't you one?_

The nurse burst into the room, slamming the doors open so hard that the walls shook and dust fell from the ceiling. "MR. POTTER, I HAVE WARNED YOU BEFORE, YOU CANNOT EXCITE THE PATIENT! HE NEEDS REST AND CALMING ACTIVITIES!"

"AND YOU. MR. MALFOY! IF YOU INSIST ON GETTING FLUSTERED I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU VISITORS!"

She slammed the door again on her way out, causing the glass of water on the table to shudder.

"She's like the personification of a Howler," said Malfoy, brushing the dust off his hair with his one good hand. "Set of pipes on that one."

Harry would have almost smiled at Malfoy if he could see. Instead he coughed and wiped off his glasses on his robe. When he put them back on he remembered what he had to tell Malfoy, so he took them off to polish them again, concentrating on getting every single speck of dust off, wiping them again and again.

"Not..._want_ to Trace you," he said slowly, wiping the spotless glasses with the sleeve of his robe. "They did." He waited for the outburst and the return of the nurse.

Malfoy took a deep breath, as if preparing a scream. Then he held it. He turned pink. Then he turned purple. And then he turned blue. Harry was about to summon Nurse Battering Ram himself, if Malfoy didn't breathe soon.

And then just when he looked he was about to pass out, he finally let it all out in a long, slow hiss, like steam from a pipe. "What!" Malfoy hissed, low and angry. "Without my consent? Isn't that _criminal_? _That can't be legal_!"

"Malfoy," Harry responded, intently now, "The war just ended. Voldemort may be dead but it's clearly not over. Think of what happened to you and your parents—"

"Don't you dare bring my parents into this—"

"Just listen to me, okay! The Ministry isn't taking any chances. They can't afford to. You're...potentially dangerous. Do you want another attack to happen just because someone wasn't watching what they should have been?"

Malfoy shut his mouth and glared. He sat silently for a moment. Harry wondered what he was thinking of, of his parents, maybe, of their twisted and mutilated bodies, of claws tearing through flesh and freshly spilled blood...Maybe that had been a bad tactic.

"I just thought of another option," Malfoy said, suddenly bright.

"What is it?"

"I could always kill myself!"

"Bollocks," said Harry quickly, around the lump in his throat.

"Okay, I won't," Malfoy admitted. "But I will think about it. A lot. And threaten to kill everybody else. A lot."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Sod off, Potter. Aren't visiting hours over yet?"

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Go away. You're bad for my recovery!"

"Okay, okay. But you'll think about it, then?"

"NURSE! THIS MAN IS EXCITING ME!"

"WHAT'S ALL THIS, THEN?" shouted the nurse, slamming open the door open as they winced and a piece of loose ceiling tile fell down. "WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT EXCITING THE PATIENT? MR. MALFOY IS IN A FRAGILE STATE AND NEEDS HIS PEACE AND QUIET."

She grabbed Harry by the collar and yelled in his ear. "I REFUSE TO STAND FOR SUCH ROWDINESS IN MY HOSPITAL!"

"All right, all right! I'm leaving! I'm leaving!" Harry said, but it was no good, as he was scooped up by his robes literally, forcibly tossed out of the room. "Ow!" he said as he landed unceremoniously and ungracefully on his arse.

"Get Nurse Bottram to butter your bottom," Malfoy called out helpfully.

Why did he want to save Draco Malfoy, again? Harry couldn't, for the life of him, think of one good reason.

* * *

There was absolutely No Choice.

There was quite a lack of hope in those two words, and Draco rather liked it. What was hope for, anyway? It was only for the worse when people died on you and destroyed your chances of ever being happy again.

Hope was nothing when one was lying face down in a ditch, when one's mother was screaming and there was nothing one could do, when one was bleeding to death on a mossy, damp forest floor.

"I just have to ask you one question," he told Potter when he came back the next day. "Why did you bother to ask me to go with you? It's obvious that you could have just ordered me to."

Potter looked confused, as if he didn't know himself. "I'd really rather you come willingly..."

"Give the man with no options an ultimatum and tell him to make a choice. Ask the man dangling from a rope above rabid crocodiles if he agrees to being saved. You have a funny idea of 'consent,' Potter." Draco smirked. "Is that a kink of yours? I wonder about your personal life. How does the Weaslette feel about that?"

He had the pleasure of seeing Potter turn colours. Interesting ones, too, not just red, but also some shade of purple. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

"Don't talk about Ginny that way, you—!"

"Whatever, Potter. Don't worry, your sexual perversions are safe with me." Draco flashed him a knowing smile. For some reason, that shut him up.

He kept his temper, this time, when Healer Collins came to check on his bandages. He fought the bubbles of panic that welled up in his stomach, his lungs, his heart, the need to scream when physical contact was made, how that touch felt - _touch, touch, that terrible touch touching_ - the need to rip away and wash it off and scrub his skin for a million years and scrub the layers off till it all turned bloody and raw-

The pain had subsided to a dull throb. When they unwrapped the bandages, his skin looked pink and new. In some places, it had already completely healed over. It had been raw and bleeding only a couple of days ago. Kind of cool, Draco had to admit.

He healed so quickly that it was easy to forget that he had ever been damaged at all, that it was all a nightmare. As the wounds healed, it was easy not to think that he would never see either of his parents ever again; surely they would be waiting for him when he woke up...

Except that as his flesh knitted itself back together, scar tissue knitted itself over the new skin. On his back, on his stomach, on his thighs and on his legs, the flesh raised in ugly, rough patches, like rivers and valleys on the map.

"You're doing...wonderfully, Draco," Healer Collins said, and there was definitely an audible disappointment in his voice. "Everything looks to be healing... exceptionally well. And Mr. Potter informed me that arrangements have been made. You should be able to leave by tomorrow."

"Well, don't look so pleased about it," Draco said. "By the way, I hope I never see you again."

Logios Collins, M.W., was so flustered that Draco swore he sprouted at least two more hairs on his chin.

Discharge papers were signed the next day. By that time, Draco physically felt perfectly fine. Physically.

"Do you have any belongings?" Potter asked.

Draco had looked around and laughed. There was nothing in the room, not even a bouquet of flowers to take. He had no wand, no money on him, no possessions.

"Potter," he said, "when I arrived, I only had the clothes on my back, if even that. Underneath this hospital gown, I am naked as the day I was born. I suppose you'd like me to take the gown with me?"

Potter blushed furiously. "Umm...I'll bring you some robes. Buy you some. Yeah."

"Well, be sure to get my measurements right. I'm not as fat as you. And don't forget, I'm taller, too." He drew himself up even more than usual to demonstrate – perfect posture as always, even if it caused him to wince slightly to prove his case.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"And nothing horrendous, either! I won't wear anything cheap. It'll give me a rash. And nothing that makes me want to throw up at the sight of it."

"Plain black dress robes, is that all right?"

"Fine, if one must be intolerably boring."

"Look, Malfoy, I don't have to do this—"

"Rather live with me naked, would you? I knew it! Pervert."

Potter blushed again. "I'm not dealing with you!" he said as he left. Draco sat back smugly, half-hoping that he wouldn't come back.

Potter, however, was always one to disappoint. He returned later with a set of robes. Draco put them on with minimal fuss: he only complained that they were ill-fitting, complained that they were of poor quality and craftsmanship, and complained they were last season's style.

He finally badgered Potter into taking him shopping.

"Later, okay? Tomorrow," Potter said. "Now let's get Ron and Hermione and get out of here."

The Weasel and Granger, together. They would have hideous, hideous children. He could hear them bickering down the hall. It came to him in snatches whenever one of the two raised their voice.

"Ron, don't say those things! He's been through a trauma..."

"Stupid, sodding git..."

"I don't trust him either but Harry is doing the right thing..."

"Harry's being naive...! He's a snake! Harry will..."

"Ha, werewolf indeed," Draco said, turning to Potter, talking over their voices. "I don't even like dogs! Big, nasty, smelly things that drool everywhere and roll around in garbage. I'm much more of a cat person."

Potter remarked, "I was actually thinking of you as one of those little white yappy dogs stupid bints carry around in their purses."

"What! How dare you! If anything, I am a noble and powerful white wolf. A lone wolf," he emphasised.

"Whatever, Malfoy."

He stared at Potter for a long time. Idiot. Arse. Stupid sod. Twat. Saviour of the Wizarding World. The only person Draco Malfoy had left to him.

The only person in all the world.

He set his mouth and nodded curtly. "Well, let's go, then, shall we?"

Draco Malfoy was a survivor.

* * *

**Reference:**  
Chapter titles are from "Bad Moon Rising," of course. I prefer the Rasputina cover for this story.  
Listen to it here: youtube .com/watch?v=elvQ4Pgpbfk


	2. I See Earthquakes & Lightning

** I See Earthquakes and Lightning**

**

* * *

**

Ginny Weasley was waiting patiently for Harry to come home. She tried to avoid looking at the clock, however, the stillness of Fred's hand too disturbing to comprehend.

It seemed that she had spent her entire life waiting for Harry. Waiting to be noticed, waiting to be saved, and then waiting for him to come back to her after all his quests and battles were done.

She was the most patient girl she knew.

_Anything worth having is worth waiting for,_ she constantly told herself. And Harry was more worth having than anything else in the entire world.

In the end, Harry had eventually come to her of his own accord, as she knew he would, and her patience had been rewarded; the story was familiar, a childhood favourite- the hero's homecoming, his faithful maiden.

_Harry Potter is my boyfriend,_ she thought, and the phrase suffused her with a sense of delicious warmth. _My boyfriend is Harry Potter._

She couldn't wait to tell her grandchildren the story of how they first met – never mind that he had been her brother's best friend, but how they had _really_ met, when he _really _saw her for the first time, in need of rescue.

He had saved her, then, from everything that had threatened to destroy her. And when the war was finally over, when they found out about Fred, he had saved her again – opened his safe arms to her as she wept into his neck and she discovered that no matter how much she felt that she was going to die from the sadness, everything would be all right.

But Harry was distracted, in these days after it all, when it should have already ended. Not that she could blame him. She wouldn't blame him, couldn't horde him selfishly to herself – he was a hero, and he would do what he had to do. As long as he returned to her at the end of the day, she knew everything would be all right.

"We're going to be having a houseguest for a bit," her mum had told her. "One of Harry's friends." Molly Weasley wrung her hands and wiped them on her apron – a gesture that Ginny had come to associate with bad news. "It'll be good for us. Good, yes," she had murmured, almost absent-mindedly. She wanted to be distracted, was constantly looking for distractions after Fred.

"One of Harry's friends? Who?"

Molly wouldn't say. "I want you to promise to be nice to our guest. It's very important..." she had continued, trailing off over etiquette and then seeming to collapse into a fit of cleaning and cooking.

Ginny knew just about all of Harry's "friends," and she had good reason not to trust a large portion of them.

It had better not be Parvati Patil. Or that floozy Lavender, who was just as bad.

And everybody knew what a slut Cho Chang was.

"Harry's friend is coming to stay with us?" George asked. "If she's a real knockout then she can sleep in our room. Otherwise, she should sleep outside."

He had paused then, as if waiting for someone else to join in agreement. When no one did, he seemed to draw within himself.

"Oh, we'll take good care of her, won't we, George?" Percy said, putting an arm around his brother. George turned his face into his shoulder.

Ginny had shuddered, looking away. It was hard to look at George these days, even worse than when Bill had come home scarred. She felt dried up for words, fragile – as if she tried to talk to George she'd cry, and that couldn't possibly make anything better. If Harry were there, he'd squeeze her hand silently, understanding. But George would never find anyone who understood him so implicitly again.

"Oh, hello, Harry," she heard her mum say. "Welcome back."

Harry stepped into the kitchen, looking as handsome as ever. Ginny leapt from her seat, running to him and flinging her arms around his neck.

"Harry," she breathed. "I've missed you."

Harry smiled at her. "What, in the six hours I've been gone?"

Ginny shook her head and closed her eyes instead, lifting her face up for a kiss. His arms were so strong around her, his mouth so gentle...

"How absolutely touching," a dry voice drawled.

Ginny pulled away from Harry abruptly, staring into his green eyes in shock. He half-smiled and shrugged somewhat apologetically.

"Malfoy?"

"The one and only." He laughed; it was a detestable sound. "Literally."

"Harry," she said urgently, " please don't tell me that this is who you've brought home—"

"Now, Ginny," Molly warned sternly, entering the room. "What did I say before?" Ginny watched, horrified, as her mum turned and gave the blonde boy a lopsided smile. "We're happy to have you, Draco. Would you like to be shown to your room?" She was wringing her apron, somewhat absent-mindedly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I appreciate your hospitality. Your house is very..." Malfoy paused.

_Go on and say it, _Ginny dared him. _Go ahead and give me a reason to hurt you._

She looked up at Harry to see if he was thinking the same thing. Harry was looking at the blonde intently, as if he had forgotten all about Ginny. Malfoy caught his eye and winked.

_What was that?_

"...charming. It's so very kind of you to have me."

Molly seemed taken aback, legitimately surprised. "Of course, dear, wouldn't dream of leaving you out in the cold." She smiled at him again, much more genuinely than the nervous smile she had first worn. "Are you hungry? You must be hungry."

Of course Molly's first instinct would be to feed him; he looked so scrawny.

Harry squeezed her about the shoulders. "Things will be okay, yeah?" he said, softly – half to her, half to himself.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. She would wait this one out.

There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Malfoy would last.

* * *

"You took me to the WEASLEY DEN?"

They were standing outside the Burrow, alone; Harry had sent Ron and Hermione ahead. The gate was left unlatched, waiting for them, the wind blew it open and then closed again.

Harry looked at Malfoy, who was looking flustered. "Where did you _think_ I was staying?" he asked.

"I don't know! Don't you have money or something? You're a big hero, aren't you? You should be getting yourself some sort of glamorous bachelor's pad with a revolving door for the girls...I didn't know that you'd be so fucked up and emotionally needy that you'd shack up with a whole pathetic bunch of dirty-"

"_Malfoy,_" Harry asked, his voice hard, "Do you _want_ to go back to the hospital?"

"At least they won't try to kill me there!"

"Okay, let's go then," Harry shrugged, turning back to the road.

"Wait...where are you going?"

_A-ha._

"What?" asked Harry. "I thought you didn't want to go to the Burrow."

Malfoy looked apoplectic. It was a good look on him, Harry decided.

" Are you bleedin' mad? That sadistic mediwizard can't wait to lay me d own on the operating table and dissect me!"

"So you _don't_ want to go stay at St. Mungo's?" Harry asked, innocently.

"Don't be daft, Potter," Malfoy gritted out. "You know I can't go back there. All those sick people." He shuddered. "Ugh." He huffed out a breath of air, flicking a bit of blonde hair out of his eyes. "You've made your point, all right?"

Harry smiled – he knew victory when he had it."I guess you _can _teach an old dog new tricks."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha, you're hilarious. No, honestly. You _slay_ me. Do tell another. How are you ever going to top yourself? Oh, I know, why don't you ask me why the cockatrice crossed the road."

"No, I've got one that you haven't heard before. How many times will I let you be rude to the Weasleys before I hex bats out of your nose?"

Malfoy sighed, shaking his head. "Just as I thought, Potter, you're hopeless. You've got the sense of humour of a dingbat."

"That's right, it's not funny. It isn't supposed to be funny. And you're not going to find it so funny when you insult them and I hex you so fast that you're going to be looking for your—"

"Right, right, play nice," Malfoy said impatiently. "I understand you _perfectly_."

"You will _behave _yourself. Remember, St. Mungo's is just a hop, skip, and Floo away."

"Keeping me on a rather short leash, aren't you? Why don't you just get me a collar and call me Spot?"

"If I do, will you roll over and play dead?" The idea was oddly appealing. Harry turned and headed towards the gate. "Fetch me the daily post and a pair of slippers?"

"You're an odd one, Potty." Harry kept walking.

"Wait!" Malfoy said.

"And what is it now?" Harry asked, annoyed. He didn't bother to look behind him to see if Malfoy was following.

"Before we go in, just tell me one thing..." Malfoy's voice was serious, so full of genuine concern that Harry stopped, almost felt sympathetic for a moment.

"What is it?" he asked – more seriously this time.

"It's not contagious, is it?"

Harry blinked, looked blank. "Is what contagious?"

"You know...their _skin condition._ All those little dots all over." The blonde made a big show of shuddering. "I'm in recovery, remember?"

"Malfoy," said Harry slowly, "Sooner or later I'm going to have to hit you."

"I'd really like to see you try," Malfoy replied nonchalantly, smirking, and Harry was irritated enough to take him up on his offer – but it seemed rather...unseemly. So they strode through the front gate together.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. Ginny sat to Harry's right. Ron should have taken the place to Harry's left, but Hermione sat next to Ginny, and Ron with Hermione, so Malfoy – who didn't want to sit next to anyone – sat there instead. Malfoy didn't look at him.

Harry listened to the sounds of eating, of forks hitting the ceramic plates.

George wasn't hungry, but they insisted that he eat. Mrs. Weasley insisted, Mr. Weasley looked as if he wanted to yell, but he didn't, Percy insisted. And then George ate, lifting the fork from the plate to his mouth until the food seemed to disappear on its own.

"So," said Mr. Weasley, "how was everyone's day?"

A jumble of mumbled responses, most of them "good" or something of a similar effect.

"I had a very good day, darling," said Mrs. Weasley. "There's just so much to do around here..."

So much to do: funeral arrangements, rebuilding Hogwarts, trials...Harry took a big gulp of milk, sloshed the chalky flavour around in his mouth.

They were trying not to look at Malfoy, probably, Harry figured. Except for Ron. Ron couldn't stop glaring at him as he shovelled food into his mouth.

Mrs. Weasley kept on offering everybody more food, Malfoy in particular.

"Eat up, Draco," she said. "Why, you're nothing but skin and bones."

"Hmm," Malfoy said. And he had the nerve to smile at her – it was a fake smile, Harry could tell. But then the blonde said, "This is delicious."

Mrs. Weasley actually blushed – like a schoolgirl, how ridiculous - and he could see that she blushed quite prettily, the colour glowing across her cheeks. It made her look younger; it made Harry think of happier times. Ginny didn't blush like that, she blushed like Ron – her entire face lighting up, from her neck to her hair. He always wanted to tease her that she looked like a tomato, but he didn't want to get slapped or hexed.

"Thank you, Draco," she said, "Please, have some more. I know it's not what you're used to, but..."

"Mother never cooked," Malfoy said, and then he was quiet after that, and so was everybody else.

Harry watched the elegant way that he cut into his meat – his knife slicing it into perfect, even strips.

Malfoy looked up then, as if seeing everybody for the first time since he had arrived.

"Where's your other half?" he asked George. There was an audible silence, a collective in rush of breath; a drawn-out sound of the moment just before the fork hit the plate.

"Oh, he's six feet under," George replied. "But not really. Not yet. We're burying him in about a week."

They were afraid to look at him, they were afraid to look at each other. Mrs. Weasley stifled a sob. Mr. Weasley coughed gruffly and then immediately looked apologetic.

"It's impossible to bury my parents," Malfoy told him. "They're strewn all over my house in little itty bitty pieces...One would have to collect them, first."

The silence was as thick as solid butter. Harry wanted to run a knife through it.

All of a sudden, there was a moment of horror as someone laughed. And then Harry realised that that someone was George, and no one had heard him laugh since Fred.

"You know what, Malfoy," the remaining one half said, "you're all right." And then he went back to his dinner.

Harry felt welled up, as if a balloon had inflated inside him, but he couldn't say why.

"Be sure to save room for dessert," said Mrs. Weasley quickly. "I've got a pie in the oven."

"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Weasley," Malfoy said.

"Please," she turned to him, "call me Molly."

* * *

They were in the sitting room, three of them, Potter and his sidekicks; they were talking, the three of them, about him.

They thought he was upstairs. He was stealthier than they thought, or perhaps he was just stealthier now...

He could hear them clearly from the hall, although they spoke in hushed tones. He rolled his eyes. If they were going to try and be discreet, they could at least be smarter than to speak in stage whispers.

"They taught us, when we were little, that evil couldn't come into your home unless you invited it. Well, not only did we invite it into my home, it's sleeping upstairs in my brother's bed!"

"Ron, Malfoy's not evil!...Not that we know of, anyway."

"No, he just has that tattoo of a skull and snake 'cause he thinks it makes him look sharp and dashing."

Draco automatically looked down at the mention of it, fingers pushing up his sleeve. It had used to hurt him from time to time, and it had hurt excruciatingly, when the Dark Lord had died; he hadn't felt anything since then. The ink was stark and black against his pale skin, and when he touched it, it felt tender and sore, but other than that it was just the same as any other tattoo now - he would carry it with him for the rest of his life.

"Whatsit called, anyway? Werewolfism? Werewolfery?" Ron's voice again.

"_Lycanthropy,_" Granger corrected.

Potter was remaining strangely quiet through this exchange. Although Draco couldn't see them, he imagined that he was deep in thought. If he concentrated, he could hear his breathing...there were three separate heartbeats in that room.

"He better not bring home any fleas," Ron muttered. "It makes me itch just thinking about it."

Draco resisted the urge to bite him. And the urge to scratch himself.

The Weasel was ranting. He tended to run his mouth quite a bit. "And Harry, you're gonna make sure he doesn't kill us all when the full moon rises, right? If Malfoy slaughters me and my entire family in our beds—"

"Ron, there's Wolfsbane Potion for that –" Granger again.

"But werewolves are unpredictable! There's no telling what could happen! We'd better get magically enhanced chains."

"Remus was fine with the potion, Ron! Honestly!" Granger chided.

"Yeah, but Malfoy isn't like Remus...Remus was good to begin with, not some vile, bloodthirsty, Death Eater spawn—"

"Ron! Do you remember that he's just lost his family-"

"He's not the only one!" Ron reminded her, his voice raised. And then, "Hermione, have you ever heard that kiddie story about the man who takes in the snake?"

Draco knew this story all too well. Mother was a great storyteller, reading to him before bedtime – imitating the deep, stupid voice of the man, and then the high-pitched hissing voice of the snake, imitating so well that it had sounded like Parseltongue...

_A hissing voice and those burning red eyes they burned straight into you there was the pain, the pain, the pain_

"Well, basically, there's this bloke who finds an injured snake on the side of the road, right? And so he feels bad for it –I'm guessing this bloke's name was Harry – but he takes it home and then treats it. He bandages it up and shite and nurses it back to health and raises it until it's really big and they live together, happy as can be, and then one day it up and bites him. So the poor sod is bleeding to death and when he asks the snake why, it goes, 'You bloody idiot, I'm still a snake.'"

"Oh, Ron, while the moral in that story is obvious, it's just that – just a children's story. People can change—"

"No, Hermione." Potter's voice now – the first time he'd spoken the entire time. Draco listened even more intently, interested in what the Boy Wonder would have to say in his defence. "Ron's absolutely right."

That traitor. He'd rip him from limb to limb, he would.

"We have to be careful. He's completely unpredictable, even the mediwizard said so. They know next to nothing about werewolves – we need to take every precaution we can, every consequence into account."

"Exactly! For once you're talking sense. He's a wild animal, basically!"

Granger sighed. "Well, I didn't want to admit it so much but now that you did, I'll say that I am a bit wary..."

"Ah-ha! So I was right!"

"But it doesn't mean that he's not having a difficult time as it is, and that even someone as horrible as Malfoy has the capacity to change...just because he hasn't shown that he's been very grateful to Harry doesn't mean that he isn't..."

Oh, so that was how it is. Accept the evil Slytherin into their wonderful home provided that he was grovelling and snivelling at their feet. Whining and obedient, that was how they wanted him, of course, and if he didn't comply...

_There is always one more option._

"We'll get the chains. I just need you to trust me right now...Both of you. Please."

For once Draco agreed with Granger and Weasley. Potter was bloody out of his mind. What Potter wanted from them – all three of them – was a little too much to ask.

* * *

Harry lay in bed that night, pondering. Some might have even called it brooding, but pondering made him seem more intelligent and less full of angst.

Draco Malfoy, whose father had been a Death Eater and had given Ginny the diary that almost killed her. Draco Malfoy, who had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, enabling Fenrir to mutilate Bill. Draco Malfoy, who saved him by not identifying him to Voldemort and whose life he had saved from conflagration and whose mother had saved Harry to save her son. Draco Malfoy, who was now an orphan and a werewolf.

Life was so fucked up. Harry sat up a bit and punched his pillow.

Malfoy had done better than Harry would ever have given him credit for. His manners were perfect (of course) and already Mrs. Weasley was quite charmed by him, even if the rest of the family wasn't.

But apparently George liked him well enough, and nowadays, that would be enough to make his other brothers like Malfoy—with the exception of Ron, of course.

And of course Malfoy and George would bond over the family cruelly torn away from them in the war, the people Harry had failed to save. It wasn't Harry's fault that he had already lost his parents when he was just an infant, that he couldn't relate now because he had never known his parents, had never had them...He had lost Sirius, he had lost Dumbledore, wasn't that enough? Did they realise what it was like to have to try and save everybody, always, to keep everybody safe and still fail, he tried, hell, he had died for them, and would do it again to bring any of them back...

George didn't even know the real Malfoy, the one who had at first refused his borrowed bedclothes because, as he had snottily informed Harry, "I have very sensitive skin. I'm allergic to poor."

Harry punched his pillow again and rolled over in bed. He wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, at this rate.

Just down the hall, Malfoy had taken the twins' old room at George's insistence. It wasn't like George could stay in there anymore anyhow; he had moved in with Percy.

And so it goes.

* * *

The Weasley home was exactly how Draco had always feared: A Museum of Bad Taste. Clashing colours. Curtains that didn't match the carpet. Oranges that looked horrible with red hair (not to mention blonde).

And the kitchen was the heart of the household, it seemed. It hummed with life, and was always bright, even when the inhabitants of the house wore their grief around them. Nothing like in the Manor...

Draco swallowed the wave of grief that rose up in his gorge and crashed in his chest. Malfoys don't cry, he sternly reminded himself, the same way he had all those times in sixth year, faced with the prospect of failure, the possible death of his parents.

And in the end, they had both died anyway, trying to protect him. He had failed them.

'_That's what's called getting some of his own back._' This voice sounded like the Weasel's, even though he was sure that the Weasel hadn't said anything like that.

But didn't he deserve it? How many people had he hurt, by letting the Death Eaters loose in Hogwarts, how many people had he watched tortured, how many parents had they killed, and then there was Fenrir—

His entire body shuddered; his brain tripped over the name, and he filled his mind with nothing. He was very skilled in Occlumency, Snape had praised him on those rare occasions, but Snape...

Draco rolled over and thought of water, thought of empty night sky. But there were night skies filled with stars, and on that night the moon had been so beautiful and bright...

We have to prepare now, his mother's voice echoed in his head. The hard times are all ahead of us. It was what she had said when the Death Eaters had started their regular housecalls.

They told him he had slept for three days straight. He was preparing, he thought to himself.

He turned his wet face into unfamiliar, horribly-patterned sheets and tried to think blank thoughts until he fell asleep.

* * *

_Children are the sweetest he always said and you're not a child anymore you're not even Father said so but you don't know anything stupid boy now as for the boy_

_Running running as hard as you can as fast as you can but you can't not enough not good enough never good enough and then_

_His breath smells like rotting meat, meat gone bad, heavy and thick and dripping and his tongue is vile and black and in your ear all that comes to you now is the word die, you wish you'd just die already, it burns so bad, it hurts so bad, "I'll be so good to you, I'll make you feel real good little boy" he had always said, "I'll make it hurt" and _

_Mum's hair is tangled and wet there are dark things in it dark things that go squish you never thought it sounded like that but it goes squish and Dad screamed you never heard him scream before you never thought it sounded like that_

_There's a claw on your spine digging into your spine slicing you up oh god he'll slice bits of your skin off peel them off in ribbons_

_Die why can't you die you should die_

_

* * *

_

Harry woke up to moaning.

At first he thought that he was dreaming, after finally having drifted off to sleep, but the sounds continued.

_Malfoy_, Harry thought.

In a moment he was out of bed, bare feet on the cold floorboards, making his way to what used to be the twins' room. The door was open slightly and from here he could hear the hitch of breath, the sounds of pain.

Malfoy was shaking on the bed, pale in the moonlight, quivering like something left raw. _Left to die._ His shoulders shook together, the breath and moans sounded as if torn from his chest.

He was crying.

Suddenly it was sixth year again and there they were in the girls' bathroom, and Harry had wanted to do something then, but he had hesitated. In a flash it was all blood on white tile and that had been that.

Harry reached out to him now, a hesitant hand on a trembling shoulder and he realised that he was asleep. His face was scrunched up and in pain, wet with gleaming trails, and then suddenly, it stopped.

The sharp features smoothed themselves out, the furrows in the brow melting away. He looked heart-achingly young. His shoulder was sharp and bony underneath Harry's hand. His breathing calmed, evened out, deepened. Harry watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the same way it had been, back in the hospital. They had given him so many potions.

He stayed, for several long moments. Just to make sure whatever night terrors the blonde had didn't start up again. When he went back to his own room, he fell asleep as soon as he laid down his head.

* * *

"Good morning, Draco," Mrs. Weasley greeted. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes, wonderfully," Draco lied. He hadn't wanted to see his reflection in the mirror – his hair ruffled, the dark circles around his eyes.

She was making breakfast; eggs sizzling in one pan, bacon in another. For a moment he was content just to watch her, the efficiency with which she worked, the apron strings tied expertly behind her back, the way the tasteless, flowered dress she wore swished about her strong calves. She was short and stout and welcoming, with wide, child-birthing hips and arms meant to hold and hug – the very stereotype of maternal love.

But she was not his mother. His mother was beautiful and willowy and slender, who bought all the sweets you oughtn't have, and hugged you so tight that it hurt sometimes. His mother never cooked, for sure, she considered it beneath her – a fact that he didn't mention at dinner.

His mother was no longer here, would never talk about how she hated cooking ever again.

After a moment he felt awkward and useless. "Is there...anything I can do to help?"

She looked at him, shocked, "Oh, you don't need to, dear, breakfast is just about done anyway."

"Oh." Draco said and looked around the kitchen restlessly.

"Well, if you really want, you could help me chop up some ingredients for a soup for tonight," she turned around to him, motioning to a pile of vegetables next to a cutting board. "You know, I'm just so used to doing everything by myself. It's what happens when you have all boys, I expect. Of course there's dear Ginny too, but after she set the pudding afire I'm afraid I haven't been able to get her anywhere near a stove. I told her, Ginevra, Mum used to explode countless puddings, but she wouldn't have any of it."

She laughed and it was easy and open; Draco found himself smiling. As far as he could tell, nobody else was up yet.

"I don't mind," Draco said honestly, chopping the vegetables with deft precision – the same way his mandrake root slices were always perfect and even.

"Draco, you're so fast and skilful," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "Why, we'll make a master chef of you yet."

"I picked it up from Potions class," Draco told her, trying not to bloom from the praise.

"Oh, did you like Potions?"

"Someone I greatly admire once told me that they could bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses..." Draco repeated, echoing from a life lived so long ago. _I can teach you to brew fame and bottle glory...even put a stopper in death. _But that was no use now, was it, not when the teacher was dead himself. What could he teach, anymore?

"Cooking's kind of like that, too, you know," Molly remarked, working deftly and steadily. "The way that nothing conquers illness like mother's chicken soup. Or how even thinking of a warm mince meat pie might warm you up on a cold day. A taste and smell bring back a fond memory; food brings people together, it dulls sorrow, fills a room with happiness."

They looked at each other and then Molly opened a cupboard, extracting a large bag of flour. Together, they set to the task of feeding an army.

* * *

Harry had woken up at half past noon, to a kitchen filled with cakes and pies. The air seemed to rise up and roll forward to greet him, warm and heavy with the smell of sugar and cinnamon and spice.

Ron was asking his mum which ones she made and which ones Malfoy had made, discerning which were edible and which were poison.

"Ron, Draco helped with all of these."

"Okay, but what about this one?"

"I don't even remember! We made everything together."

"Yeah, but what about the blueberry?"

Hermione was sitting at the table, a thick volume open in front of her. She was sandwiched in between a tower of heavy books and a tower of heavy pies. A cake sat at the top of her book pile.

"The Monster Book of Monsters is no help," she was saying to Malfoy, who looked a right mess. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands white with flour. His hair was messy, and the shirt loaned to him was too big. A strand of blonde hair was stuck to the side of his cheek with what appeared to be strawberry jam. A smudge of white was streaked across his nose.

"Keep looking, Granger," Malfoy ordered imperiously, even as he stuck his hands into a mound of dough. "No points at all for effort."

It was all frighteningly domestic; Harry felt dizzy with it for a second.

"Mum said to let you sleep in," Ginny said, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. Her hair was neatly done and she left a light trace of lipstick on his skin.

"Finally up, Potter?" Malfoy drawled. "Guess we'd better cancel that call to the undertaker who's supposed to haul your fat corpse away."

He wouldn't have slept in so late if Malfoy's moaning hadn't kept him up half the night, Harry felt like snapping, but somehow, it didn't seem right.

"Do you boys have any plans for today?" Mrs. Weasley was asking.

"We're going shopping, I think," Harry said. "Isn't that right?"

"Well, I couldn't possibly expect to take advantage of your generosity any longer," Malfoy said. Harry could hear the unsaid "borrowed rags."

"Oh, it's quite all right, Draco, you're a guest here," Mrs. Weasley said. "It's no trouble at all." Poor Mrs. Weasley – she was a foolish, gullible woman.

"I'll come too!" Ginny volunteered, squeezing Harry's hand.

Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy glared back at him.

"Ah, it's okay, Ginny...you'd be bored anyway. We're just looking at boys' things—"

Malfoy snickered.

"And we won't be long," Harry finished, stroking her hair.

Ginny sighed loudly, then rolled her eyes. "Well, hurry up and come home soon, then, Harry," she said. "I miss you when you're gone." She kissed him. Harry made a vague noise of surprise and then he relaxed, kissing her back, his hand settling gently on her hair.

Malfoy was ruining the mood by making very rude gagging noises.

"Oh, put a sock in it, Doughboy," Harry said, and let himself enjoy the strange, unfamiliar feeling for once.

* * *

It was rainy day, the cobblestones wet and slick, puddles dotting the streets. Inside the shops of Diagon Alley it was busy and crowded like always; hard to believe that a little over a week ago the same people who chatted and shopped so happily had been in danger of falling under Voldemort's power.

Malfoy had taken to entering stores, browsing around, and then leaving them very quickly. Harry couldn't allow anything to catch his eye for even a minute, not even the millions of magazines with himself on the cover – because he knew that as soon as he turned around, Malfoy would have done his Houdini impression.

Harry would have suspected him of actually trying to run away, if it weren't for the fact that they both knew he had nowhere to run to.

Still, it was exhausting.

It was strange, Harry thought. The last time he had been in Diagon Alley with Malfoy, Draco had been with Narcissa, and Harry had suspected him (quite rightly) of being a Death Eater. And now they were back, clothes shopping together.

"Hideous, hideous, hideous," Malfoy was declaring, as the shopkeeper looked more and more irate by the second. "Undoable, Unthinkable, Unforgivable, _ugh! Un-be-lievable!_"

Harry rolled his eyes, said, "_You're _unbelievable." He was pretty certain that if it weren't for the fact that he was who he was, they would have been banished from at least twenty stores by now. Malfoy tossed a pair of trousers at him that landed on his head. "Hey!" Since Harry's arms were full of clothes already, he was forced to try and shake them off.

"This is the worst store that you've taken me to yet. Honestly, Potter. Are you colour-blind in addition to nearsighted? Just how blind are you?"

Harry didn't bother to mention that Malfoy had chosen every single one of the stores that they had been inside. At this rate, they would never make it back before dinner.

"Like, do you even know what I look like? Or am I just a blur with eyes or something to you?"

Finally they found a store with fashions that Malfoy didn't declare to be vomit-inducing:

Robespierre's Robe Shop, owned by a designer by the name of Pierre Robespierre. Harry stood by the dressing room as Malfoy tossed clothes over the partition and onto the floor, shouting orders.

"Put that one back, I won't stand for it!" or "Get that atrocity out of my sight, it disgusts me!" or "Hang that one up! I want it!" and "Are you listening, Potter, or are you deaf as well as blind?"

The shopkeeper in this particular store was an attractive young wizard with perfectly styled spiky hair; dressed in a tight, fitted mauve blazer and even tighter, perfectly-tailored mauve trousers. He seemed to fret over the idea of THE Harry Potter using his heroic hands to do something as menial as pick up clothes up off a shop floor.

"No, no, no, Mr. Potter, I'll get that..." and "Mr. Potter, don't you worry about this one, it's no problem," or "Here, Mr. Potter, let me do that..." and "So, Mr. Potter, are you single?"

The ensuing dialogue usually consisted of lines like, "No, no, you don't have to," or "I'm really sorry he's such a twat," or "No, I'll do it, he's my responsibility," and "Um...er...what? Oh, well, I'm seeing someone..."

Now and then a tug-of-war would ensue, with the shopkeeper (whose name was Guy) insisting that Mr. Potter let him take care of the apparently offensive article of clothing, as it was his job, and Harry grabbing the other end of the clothing, insisting that the offensive blonde was his responsibility, and he was really sorry to have caused all this trouble.

Of course, when Harry won, he always ended up handing the clothes over to Guy anyway, as he seemed to do a horribly botched-up job of trying to fold the clothes properly, just so. Guy's expert clothes always looked wrinkle-free and ready for display, Harry's folded clothes tended to be bunched up boiled cabbage.

These tugs-of-war were punctuated with periods of Malfoy emerging dramatically from the dressing room, expecting to be admired and lavished with praise. He would strut out as if doing his best catwalk model walk, turning to be examined from all angles. Harry personally thought it was a poor imitation, but he had to admit that Malfoy – who was so thin and bony now – did an excellent job in choosing clothes that covered up all his flaws.

The first time, Harry made the grievous mistake of telling him that his outfit looked, "Okay."

Malfoy had looked more upset at that simple word than he ever did when Harry was actually trying to insult him.

"Um...I mean, it looks pretty good, I guess."

Malfoy stormed back into his dressing room, declaring the outfit a crime against humanity. Harry called after him that he thought it was "quite nice." Scant seconds later, a belt buckle hit Harry in the head.

Guy looked at him sympathetically. "Ooh, what a diva," he remarked.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

* * *

Two hours and half a store full of clothes later, Malfoy declared that he was done.

It was a good thing, too, because Harry was about five minutes away from announcing that he was done and Malfoy was just going to have to deal with wearing potato sacks for the rest of his days, or whatever, he didn't care, he just wanted to go home.

"How would you like to pay for these?" Guy asked, smiling his even, white smile at both of them.

"I'll take care of it," Harry offered.

"I'm not going to be a kept man, Potter," Malfoy grimaced.

"Good, because I wouldn't want to keep you anyway," Harry said as he looked at the bill. Christ, Malfoy had expensive taste. "You're going to have to put some of this back, Malfoy – do you honestly need that many outfits..."

"Yes, some of us are clean people who like to change their clothes every day!"

"You could always wash them and re-wear them, you know, instead of burning them afterwards, or whatever it is that you do."

Malfoy looked deeply offended. "What, and run the risk of repeating outfits?"

Guy laughed. "If you don't mind me asking," he said, "How long have you two been together?"

"W-what?" they choked, simultaneously.

Guy looked from one face to the other; twin expressions of shock on their very different features. "You know, together. Dating."

"You think we're—"

"We're not—"

"He's not—"

"I'm not—"

"Oh vile! Disgusting!"

"No way in hell—"

"I think I'm going to vomit all over your lovely polished marble countertop."

"Oh, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to assume..." Guy quickly backtracked, "It's just that you two seemed to have that sort of passion..."

"_I'm_ paying for the clothes," said Malfoy, "as this ugly git and I have absolutely nothing to do with each other and have no obligation to each other whatsoever."

"No, Malfoy, you can't..." Harry began.

"I can and I will. They're my clothes, I don't see any reason why I should owe you that—"

"With what money?"

"My money, of course. Why, we'll just stop by Gringotts and access my vault..."

Harry sighed and grabbed his arm now; Malfoy tried to shake him off but Harry held on tight and dragged him aside while Guy looked on interestedly.

"I'm telling you, you can't," Harry said, keeping his voice low and private. "The Malfoy funds are frozen right now. There's no access to your account."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the Ministry has frozen all access to your money until they've determined that you're not a threat to yourself or others. They're letting me access a monthly allowance to take care—"

Malfoy didn't wait for him to finish – he simply promptly left the store.

Harry looked at Guy, called, "Holdontothose" and was running after Malfoy immediately after.

* * *

Mother had usually been the one to take Draco to Diagon Alley before school started. Father rarely had the patience for shopping. But Draco remembered the times when he was very young, and they had all gone as a family, and no wish went unfulfilled.

It was easy enough, to pretend that he was here again because he wanted to be, that everything was normal. It was easy to pretend that he was shopping because he felt like it, and not because he couldn't return to what he used to call home.

His mother's ghost was here. He could feel her slender white hand on his shoulder when they passed Ollivander's, where she had paid for his wand, her gentle breath on his cheek when they passed the Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour – his favourite as a child. She haunted every store that they had gone in together; the toy store where she bought him his first hobbyhorse, his first miniature racing broom, the cauldron shop for all those Potions experiments gone awry, the Owl Emporium, Madame Malkin's.

If Draco concentrated enough, he could almost feel the way she used to hold onto his hand too tightly, afraid that her little boy would get lost in the crowd.

Father should have been more difficult to conjure, but he was here as well; a stern, staid presence by Draco's side. Sometimes he was a hand on the shoulder, or maybe, in the middle of his back, gently guiding – and when Draco felt particularly small, he was a hand on a small blonde head, an indulging pat from time to time.

The air smelled like rain and hundred other scents; the shops were crowded. The newspaper stands had images of Potter on every publication; from the Daily Prophet to Teen Witches' Magazine.

There were too many people. Draco felt claustrophobic, overwhelmed. He could smell the perfume that a witch was wearing from ten feet away; he could tell who had just been to the Leaky Cauldron – that scent of cigarettes and ale that clung to them; he knew what people had eaten for lunch. When surrounded by people he could smell their individual scents, their various odours, the tinge of fresh sweat, and sometimes, old sweat.

And then, worse than the smell, there was the sound. Their whispers followed him, crawled into his ears and along the back of his neck.

"_Isn't that the Malfoy boy with Harry Potter_...?"

"_Yes, have you read about it in the Daily Prophet._.."

"_He's a monster now, did you hear that...?"_

_"...Death Eater...he was a monster before..." _

"_I don't understand why they don't just lock him up in Azkaban...he's a menace to society..._"

When he couldn't take it anymore he would run outside. If Potter heard any of it, he gave no indication.

Draco concentrated on the trivialities: the cut of this robe, the thin stripe pattern of this shirt, that certain shade of black that would complement his complexion instead of making him look washed-out, like a black-and-white photograph.

Then it came time to pay and he was told he couldn't. Just a year ago he had been here, doing the same task as he was that day, but now instead of his beautiful mother he had Harry Potter. He was a prisoner, for sure, and his warden was the one person that he never could stand.

Life was too funny.

* * *

The alleyway was dark and damp; the brick wall he leaned against rough and gritty. Potter would find him eventually, no doubt, (_especially with that Tracing Charm, _came the bitter thought) but for now he needed the illusion that he was still in control of his own life.

"If it isn't Draco Malfoy..."

Draco looked up; it was a boy with dirty blonde hair who looked vaguely familiar. He couldn't be sure. The boy looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, he was tall and lanky. When he spoke, his voice was more of an attempt at smooth than actually being smooth; there was a tremor that belied him.

"Do I know you?" Draco sneered, looking at him with disdain. He could smell the freshness of his sweat, his nervousness.

The words came out in a rush. "We went to school together. Not that it matters. I didn't believe all those rumours about you being a Death Eater, but now I see it's true, I read all about it-"

Draco rolled his eyes. He was in no mood to be annoyed by some stupid fifth-year. Probably a Hufflepuff, from the looks of it, with straw for brains as well. "Yes, you and all of Britain. Do you have anything productive to tell the class, or are you just here to waste my time?"

"Some reporters described it as a tragedy. The only tragic thing about it is that die along with your dirty Death Eater parents!"

Draco snarled; his hand automatically went to his wand – he cursed when he realised his foolishness. He was completely unarmed.

_You could take him you could snap his neck he's slow he's just a boy you'll take him down_

"You're really prepared to take me on by yourself? Did you hear what they also say? I'm dangerous, you know. Even my saliva is toxic. I could tear you open just with my teeth."

He stalked towards the boy as he spoke, feeling the air tense with the waves of fear. There was a sour tang to the sweat now; Draco licked his lips. It would be so easy to jump him, rip his throat, feel the grind of his bones...

The boy was backing up now, his hand on his wand, looking nervously from side to side. "I-I know. I'm not stupid."

And all of a sudden he smiled, and Draco saw a frightening confidence in the expression as a group of boys walked into the alleyway.

"I'm not alone."

* * *

Harry had showed up just in time, it seemed.

A group of maybe six or seven boys surrounded Malfoy, their wands drawn. The blonde had a wild, frenzied look about him – a cornered animal, Harry thought, unbidden.

He arrived just as Malfoy lunged at a boy, teeth bared, tackling him to the ground. He rolled with him, hands in a chokehold around the boy's neck. The boy's hands flailed, and then one hand scrabbled for his dropped wand and found it. His companions, shocked for a moment, did not remain shocked-

"_Stupefy!"_ Harry cried. His aim was sure and true - the tallest and biggest of the boys collapsed. Then another Stunning Spell, just as quickly. Another body hit the floor. Followed by, "_Petrificus Totalus!_" That hit the boy on the floor, who went rigid and still underneath Malfoy.

"Shit," one of the boys said as their companions hit the floor, "RUN!"

For a moment he wanted to chase after them, to demand that they explain the meaning of this. But making sure that Malfoy didn't kill the boy underneath him was a more immediate priority.

He pulled Malfoy off of the boy; the blonde struggled against him and broke free, surprisingly strong. He whirled around on Harry, his stance aggressive, as if he was prepared to rip him from limb to limb next.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled. His eyes flashed, full of heat and bloodlust; Harry noted that one of his eyes was swelling, bruised. He had a split lip and another bruise on his cheek. Apparently they had decided to rough him up before hexing him.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Malfoy?" Harry shouted at him. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, you stupid fuck?"

Malfoy let out a howl and lunged at Harry, knocking the breath out of him. They landed on the dirty, wet pavement together; his wand fell out of his hand, splashing in a puddle. Harry threw a punch and missed; Malfoy seemed unusually fast. He fisted his hands in the front of Harry's clothes, lifted him up and slammed his head into the pavement. Harry's head rung, but he flailed wildly, causing Malfoy to lose his grip. He landed a blow to the side of Malfoy's head; the blonde rolled off of him, then seemed to gather himself up for another attack. Harry scrambled up off the pavement, prepared to strike, when he saw that Malfoy's eyes locked onto his discarded wand and in an instant the blonde had pointed Harry's own wand at him.

"What, you want to kill me now?" Harry panted. "Jesus Christ, Malfoy, I just saved your fucking life!"

At that, Malfoy stared down at the wand in his hand, as if unsure what he was planning to do with it himself.

"Fuck," he cursed softly, dropping it on the floor. "Merlin."

Harry shook his head; it was still ringing from the introduction to the pavement. "Have you lost your bloody mind? What's gotten into you?"

Malfoy shook his head as well, as if attempting to clear it. "I...I just lost it."

"That much is obvious!" Harry exclaimed. It was only now that he could see how bad Malfoy's injuries actually were; his nose was bleeding, his sleeve ripped – the exposed arm covered with bruises. "Are you...all right?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Nothing's broken..." He touched his nose softly and cursed. "Except maybe that." He looked at the red that dripped from his pale hand, rubbed the blood between his fingers. Finally, he said, quietly, "They were talking about my parents."

Harry felt moved to sympathy, but he didn't move. "Oh."

"You've read the papers, you've heard what they say! Monstrous Draco Malfoy in the custody of Bleedin' Noble Heart Harry Potter! You basically own me, I can't go anywhere on my own, I can't do anything, I can't even buy my own clothes, I have no wand, no home, I'm your dog on a choke chain, and if you don't be a good boy and behave then it's back to the hospital for you!"

His words slapped Harry in the face. It was true, every bit of it, Malfoy was as trapped as any person could be. He was Harry Potter's creature; they were stuck together, and Harry knew he was good and right and he was doing his best, his very best, but it still wasn't good enough. Not for Malfoy.

Fucking Draco Malfoy.

"Well, maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Harry shouted at him, not sure what else to say. "Ooh, I'm Draco Malfoy, I lost my parents, I'm a werewolf, I'm not a charity case, I hate being with bloody Harry Potter! Yeah, so what! It's horrible, yes, it's bloody awful, but you're not the only one! George lost the most important person to him in all the world. Your aunt lost her daughter and her son-in-law, two of her sisters, and what about everybody else who's lost their parents in this war, what about the people _your Father_ killed! Or even the children on _your side_! You're alive, aren't you? And it's no picnic for me to be with you, either! It's a bollocks situation anyway you look at it, so you might as well deal with it!"

Harry was breathing heavily.

Malfoy was staring at him, grey eyes wide, speechless. For a second Harry thought he was going to attack him again, and he braced himself, ready to fight back with all he had.

"Wow, Potter, nice delivery. That's probably the most words I've ever heard your feeble brain string together. Have you been practising that little speech for long?"

Harry gawked. Malfoy really was impossible. He shrugged and laughed a little. "Well, you know. Now and again, in the shower."

"Dinner's probably ready by now," Malfoy said. He looked down at himself with great distaste. "Ugh."

"Yeah," said Harry, now realising how his robes stuck to him, wet with mud and gutterwater. "I could use a shower. And maybe a pie."

"You shouldn't eat them," Malfoy told him seriously.

"Why not? You baked roughly a hundred of them this morning."

"Yes, but, how can you be so sure that they aren't poisoned?"

"Practically everyone had some this morning, including you. You're still here talking to me, aren't you?" Harry countered.

Malfoy smiled now, sly and secretive. "Ah, yes, but don't you see, Potter – I, in my devious cunning and brilliance, have developed a special poison, made specifically for the purpose of killing you and only you."

"Just for me? Oh, how special."

The dark sky rumbled ominously overhead. They looked up together.

"Come on," said Harry, "let's head home."

"Sure," Malfoy replied. "Home, prison, tomb, same difference to me."

Harry looked at him sharply and met a white-toothed smile. "Just kidding," Malfoy shrugged.

As they turned to go it began to rain in earnest. They left the bodies behind in the alleyway, letting them get soaked.

* * *

That night Harry was lying awake again, unable to sleep. He listened to the house as it creaked and settled. Malfoy hadn't spoken to him much when they returned to the Burrow, but then again, he didn't speak to anybody much.

Of course, he cooked with Mrs. Weasley and he also spent a good hour or two after dinner in George and Percy's room, doing God knows what...probably playing Exploding Snap, Ginny had said. Ginny had tried to engage him in a game of it herself, but Harry hadn't been in the mood.

He wondered what Hermione had discovered about werewolves, if anything, since she had spent the day researching. He wondered if Malfoy would have the nightmares again tonight; in the back of his mind he could almost hear the moaning and crying again.

The door creaked open.

Harry grabbed his wand, whispered _Lumos. _The light burned in the bedroom.

"Malfoy?"

He slipped into his room, a pale shadow, dressed a tight white tank and black silk pyjama pants. They must have been part of the new clothes they bought that day, but Harry didn't remember Malfoy modelling these. He noticed the curve of his shoulders, the slice of a collarbone. The bruises from earlier that day were almost completely healed now; a combination of _Episkey_ and his newfound healing powers. A smudge of yellow-green on a sharp cheekbone remained.

His eyes were somehow bright in the dim light. It wasn't until he came closer that Harry could see that the grey eyes were bloodshot, Malfoy's face blotchy with patches of red.

"Have you been—"

"No. Shut up."

Harry's eyes slid to the inside of his forearm, where a cruel black tattoo seemed to float on a white surface.

"Look," said Malfoy, clearly unhappy, "I need to sleep with you."

Harry actually choked. "_What?"_

"Not that way, you stupid wanker—"

"You're not helping your case."

Malfoy fixed him with an intense silver stare; his eyes looked liquid in the dark. It was unsettling; Harry's skin prickled with the sensation.

"You were in my room last night, weren't you?" the blonde asked. Harry wasn't sure if his tone was accusatory or not.

"What—no—How do you know that? You were just pretending to be asleep, weren't you! You're trying to manipulate me into feeling bad for you."

"That's the most preposterous hypothesis I've ever heard. I'd have to be pretty pathetic to want your pity, Potter."

Harry allowed himself to be vaguely impressed by the fact that Malfoy had managed that entire line without a single stutter.

"Then how do you know?"

Malfoy looked slightly perplexed, as if he couldn't come up with an explanation for himself. "I could...sense it."

"You heard me come in? So you weren't asleep!"

"No, nothing like that. It was as if...I just knew. Like I can hear your heartbeat from here. Like I can smell you from here—"

"I took a shower," Harry protested, insulted.

"Yeah. With the Weaslette's strawberry-scented shampoo, too. Like the way I can tell you that Granger's tossing and turning in her room and Percy and George are sharing a bed—"

"Malfoy...what's going on?"

"I...don't know. It must be a wolf thing." He laughed, bitterly, "This explains how that thing found me..."

"Malfoy..." Harry paused, not knowing what to say. "That's...what you were dreaming about."

Malfoy looked at him sharply. Harry immediately thought that he had said the wrong thing, but what was wrong and what was right after this afternoon's outburst? Malfoy looked contemplative, now.

"Actually, earlier that day I had been imagining what Granger and the Weasel's offspring would look like. That's enough to give anyone nightmares." He smiled smugly. "Then it turned into a sex dream involving your girlfriend and that's why all the screaming."

"Malfoy!" Harry reprimanded, dutifully scandalised.

"Aggressive little wench, isn't she? Must be all that fiery red hair that does it. Why, she was all over me like sauce on Salisbury and she turned a deaf ear to all my virtuous protestations—"

"Malfoy...stop it," Harry said, making a noble attempt at being stern. And he certainly wasn't laughing at his girlfriend's expense. No, not the least bit.

"Don't you want to know how the dream ends?" he asked innocently.

"Not particularly." And he didn't, not a bit. "You still haven't explained why you're here."

"Well, I figured that I might as well bag myself a matched set," Malfoy purred. "Maybe that poncey shopkeep was onto something, after all..."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Oh, you're genuinely disgusting, Potter." Malfoy laughed. "I mean that."

Harry cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "And you're disturbing my sleep. So spit it out or leave already. Go back to bed, Malfoy."

"No."

"No what?"

"I can't go back to that room."

"Why?"

"Because I'll dream again. About your girlfriend."

"Of my girlfriend."

"Yes. It was horrible and traumatic. I can't repeat that experience again, ever. It might make me impotent or something. Really now, Potter. What do you want me to say?"

" I want you to tell me why you're here. Seriously, this time. The truth."

Malfoy sighed now, a hand smoothing back his blonde hair. "After you left, last night...I slept. And it's the first time I remember sleeping well since...it happened."

"So?"

Malfoy gave Harry a look that suggested Harry didn't have a logical bone in his body, and that he had possibly been dropped on the head by Voldemort as a child. "So I have to sleep with you."

Harry forced himself not to startle again because of the turn of phrase. "That doesn't make any sense. What makes you think it was me...?"

"I just know, okay?" Malfoy sighed now. "And even if it doesn't work, at least I tried."

There was a tinge of desperation in his voice, and suddenly Harry felt a surge of pity for him again. He knew all too well about closing your eyes and seeing nothing but death and horror. Wake up screaming in the middle of the night, covered with cold sweat, shaking and alone.

"And isn't it your duty?" Malfoy continued. "You're assigned to attend to my well-being, aren't you? I'm potentially dangerous, if I understand correctly." He looked at Harry seriously now, leaning in, his expression intent. "Weren't you the one who told me to make the best of a fucked-up situation, any way I could?"

Harry shook his head; at whom, he couldn't be sure: Malfoy or himself. Maybe the both of them. The situation was ridiculous. "How are we going to fit?"

"What, you want me curl up at the foot of your bed? Is that what you want? I'll do it, you know I'll do it, you're a bloody bastard-"

"God, you're impossible. No, here, look..."

He moved himself as far to the other side of the bed as possible, his back hitting the wall, peeling back the covers.

It was a rather small bed, to say the least.

"Erm," said Harry, realising the implications of the invitation, "Maybe one of us could sleep on top of the sheets, and the other could sleep under them..."

"You can sleep on top of the sheets if you want, but I'm not going to," Malfoy sniffed. "It's as cold as a witch's tit tonight. No reference to anyone we know, red-headed girlfriend in particular, of course."

"Malfoy," said Harry half-heartedly, knowing it was a lost cause. He sighed. "How are we going to do this?"

"Stick a pillow between us if you're so worried about us touching," Malfoy suggested. It made enough sense.

"But then I won't have a pillow."

"Oh, boo hoo. Then don't stick a pillow between us. Do whatever you want, I don't care."

Harry pulled the pillows from under his head and made a small fort; his first line of defence. Malfoy waited until he was satisfied, shrugged, and then graciously lay down next to him. The bed dipped with his weight, and it gave Harry a second to wonder at the fact that this was the first time that he was sharing a bed with someone.

And that someone was Malfoy. Ick.

The thought that occurred to him was that he couldn't imagine Ginny being too happy with this turn of events, if she were to know.

The second thought that occurred to him was that it really was an awfully small bed.

It was squishy and too hot. They jostled a bit, trying to get comfortable; Harry felt as if he were being suffocated between goosedown and the colourful wallpaper. He pushed towards Malfoy, trying to make space; Malfoy pushed back, squishing him against the wall.

"Oi, I don't have any room!"

"Well, I'm falling off the edge!"

"Okay, okay, just stop moving, okay?"

But Malfoy was sneaky, as always. Inch by inch the pillows moved against Harry until he was practically flat against the wall ; Harry would push back gently but ten minutes later, he would find himself in the exact same position.

Getting irritated, Harry elbowed the pillow border towards him a bit and then suddenly found himself with a face full of pillow – he couldn't breathe. So he gave a big _shove_ and there was a _thud_ and when Harry dared to peer over the edge of the bed, Malfoy was on the floor, looking distinctly ruffled and glaring fit to set things on fire. Things being Harry Potter, for example.

"Oh, sod it!" the blonde spat.

He grabbed the pillows and put two under his head, shoving the other back at Harry. "I won't touch you, okay?"

It was a placating lie, not a promise. In that bed, there was no way to avoid it. Malfoy turned his back to him; Harry tried to ignore the unfamiliar feeling of another person's body heat so close in bed.

The tip of his knee was touching the back of Malfoy's calf. It was dreadfully distracting. If Malfoy shifted back just slightly, his arse might even be touching some part of Harry.

Vile.

Harry tried to be quiet but then noticed that Malfoy's heel was touching the instep of his bare foot. The more he tried to ignore it, the more touching spots he noticed. He felt extremely ticklish. He felt like pushing Malfoy out of bed, again.

"Malfoy?"

"What?"

"This is weird..."

"Shut up, Potter."

They were quiet again, for several moments. Harry closed his eyes. Then he opened them.

"Do you think we could change position, maybe...?"

"I'm not facing you, Potter, that's too queer," Malfoy stated.

"I didn't mean that! I mean, maybe we could sleep head-to-toe?"

"Oh, and sleep all night with your stinky, rotting feet next to my glorious visage? How absolutely charming. No, thank you."

So that was out of the question, then. Harry sighed and wished that he were more tired so he could just fall asleep already. Except he was extremely tired, sometimes exhausted all the time, these days.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how ticklish he was, and telling his body that all those parts that touched didn't matter. But then he felt the phantom sensation of parts that _weren't _touching - the golden hair almost against his cheek, or the curve of the spine almost against his chest, and then his skin felt brushed with insect wings all over.

He willed himself to relax, to think about the softness of the mattress and the pillows, the tiredness of his heavy limbs...

"Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"If you kick me, I'm hexing that body part off."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"I'm just doing you the courtesy of a fair warning!"

"Go to sleep!"

"_You _go to sleep!"

"I'm _trying_, but some stupid pale-faced git keeps talking to me!"

Malfoy harrumphed, gave his pillow a few vicious blows, and then settled in again, his back to Harry.

The blonde was so close that Harry could see everything in focus, even without his glasses. He could see the scars, slicing up Malfoy's neck, the disfigured tissue on one shoulder. It was rough and ragged, where sharp claws had ripped into soft flesh – just another battle wound now. The blonde's body was warm against his. He listened to Malfoy's breathing until it slowed and then until it deepened, trying to match their breaths – inhale for inhale, exhale for exhale - never realising the moment when he fell asleep, as well.

They stayed curled together, unmoving, through the night.


	3. I See Bad Times Today

** I See Bad Times Today**

* * *

"What do you mean, there's no Wolfsbane Potion?"

Draco Malfoy was calm, cool, collected, without question. He was in charge of any situation that he was presented with. And that wasn't a note of panic in his voice. Draco Malfoy did not panic, and he didn't feel himself close to weepy hysterics.

"Go take a look for yourself!" Potter told him. "Unless Snape has secret stores that we don't know about, all the vials are either smashed or empty."

He had always hated Potter, Draco decided.

It was bad enough to be back at Hogwarts, to see the places that he treasured in ruins. He couldn't look at the flagstones without seeing corpses, didn't even want to think about visiting the dormitories...

He couldn't help remembering that this was the last place where his mother had held him, had enveloped him tightly in her arms and kissed his face over and over and said, "_Draco, my darling, Draco, my dove, my sweet, you're all right, you're all right, we're all going to be all right..."_

She had squeezed him so hard that he almost couldn't breathe, but he had hugged her just as tightly to him, as if he were eight instead of eighteen and just her presence could banish the nightmares and things that went bump in the night. She had pressed her cheek to his, wet his neck with her tears, and the laughter had bubbled up inside of him, he had wanted to laugh so hard, just to see if he had remembered how it had felt. She had felt thin in his arms, shoulders and ribs and spine, but she held him with iron strength.

Even Father, Father who was never demonstrative, who never allowed him more than the occasional smile and pat on the head since he turned eleven, Father had embraced them, curved his arms around the both of them, and he was strong too, an anchor, a harbour – and for the first time in three years Draco had felt safe. The joy had shone shimmering and gold inside of him, and he had thought, yes, this is happiness, yes, this is life.

He would not think about it, he would not think about it, he would not, he could not -

Now everything was either smashed or empty.

The Potions classroom had been wrecked. The desks were overturned, cauldrons on the floor – some of them still containing traces of liquids, some of them still bubbling. Others were full of holes. Stains covered the floors and walls.

The lock on the supply closet had been completely blasted away, the door forced open. The floor was covered with shards of broken glass and scattered bits of creatures: newt's eyeballs, hen's teeth, dragon claws, brains and hearts. There were holes in the floor where the more caustic liquids had dripped and eaten through. Some of the shelves were completely turned over. An escaped luminescent slug clung to the doorframe.

"Ick, what a mess," Weasley said, "there's nothing here. All rubbish! ...Augh, I think a spider just fell on me!"

Draco closed his eyes, his hand against his face. Something was bristling inside of him. He could feel it gnawing on his intestines, pounding against his ribs.

Someone had been there before them.

Someone didn't want them to have the potion to keep him sane.

_I made you a killer...So, Killer...go kill..._

He could kill, yes. He wanted to kill – to exact revenge on a cruel world that had taken his parents away, and then had the audacity to continue as if everything were normal. A world that left him with dead best friends and missing friends and no one left to him at all. He could have blood and carnage and pain until everyone felt the same as he did, was all broken glass inside the way he was, until their pain matched the pain that had ripped into his heart, his body...

Draco shook his head. He had to get out of here soon. Clearly being back here was no good for him.

"Are you all right?" Potter asked. He was looking at him and biting his lower lip, stupid concern in those stupid green eyes.

"Oh, just peachy," Draco snapped back. Potter was still looking, looking even stupider, clearly warring with annoyance, disbelief, and even more stupid good-hearted concern. He could be so simple. Draco regained control on his voice. "Sorry, being back here simply made me nostalgic for a time in my life when I wasn't _legally obliged_ to spend all my time staring at your ugly scarred face. I even used to have hobbies."

Potter looked slightly hurt. Draco felt better.

"The only reason we're here is because we want to help _you_," Potter muttered sullenly. "And you still have hobbies."

"We'll check other options," Granger said reasonably. "The Order or St. Mungo's should have some in stock, right...?"

Draco looked at her irritably. "How is it possible that someone supposedly so smart can be so stupid?" he mused out loud. "Just how many werewolves do you know? The Wolfsbane potion was brewed specifically for Lupin, and Snape was his supplier. If the extra potion isn't here, then we won't find it anywhere."

"Well," Granger said, "then we'll just have to gather the ingredients and brew our own."

"Don't _continue_ to be stupid, Granger, it's extremely unbecoming." He ignored Weasley's shout of "Don't talk to her that way!" Draco continued, "Wolfsbane is incredibly difficult to brew. So difficult that Snape was the only one who was capable of producing the potion." He sneered. "To assume that you could reproduce it is sheer naïveté, and, dare I say it, arrogance."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Granger snapped at him. "At least it would give us something productive to do. It's better than sitting around moping, now isn't it!"

He shut his mouth and nodded curtly; Granger was right. They set to salvaging what remains of the supplies that they could.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was the worst thing that Harry could have possibly brought home, with the exception of the Black Plague. Even measles would have been preferable to a Malfoy.

He was insufferable. He was irritating and abrasive, ungrateful and rude. Ginny was sick of being told that she couldn't go anywhere because of him.

Ginny, don't follow me to St. Mungo's, Ginny, you can't go shopping with us, Ginny you shouldn't go back to Hogwarts with us...

It was enough to make a girl puke. For all that Harry claimed to believe that she was his equal, he seemed rather determined to keep his womenfolk at home.

Malfoy even managed to somehow blindside her poor, gullible mother, and her emotionally fragile brother. He was a parasite, a leech, he had to be stopped. How dare he talk to George when George wouldn't even look at her some days, how dare he convince her mother that he could cook when Ginny's specialty was the unintentional flambé.

Fred and George would have never stood for this. But Fred was...Well. And George wasn't up to standing for much, these days.

Harry was the one who had held her and rocked her as she had cried over her brother, when the pain seemed so deep and dark that it felt like it would swallow her from the inside out. Harry made things better, Harry was hers, and now Harry was spending all his time and effort trying to comfort something that refused to be comforted.

They were constantly together. Day after day, Harry trailed after him, as if trying to guard him from some unseen evil, as if he wanted to _protect_ him, when the most evil being around was clearly Malfoy himself.

Malfoy, on the other hand, stubbornly sat as far away from Harry as possible in any situation, snapped at him, insulted him, and was generally an all-around nasty git.

How could he carry on like that when he was _grieving_? What grief did he have, compared to hers? Horrible people like that didn't experience emotions, she was sure. At least, not on any comparable scale.

But Harry's dedication, his trust and his loyalty; all of it was all so typically Harry Potter that it was even more endearing, even if it all was infuriating, excrutiating. He _would_ be so taken with an orphan. She supposed that was why she loved him. It would be something that she would have to watch out for in their married life together.

Even Hermione, dear Hermione, seemed to be making an effort to be nice to Malfoy. It was probably per Harry's request, Ginny figured.

"I guess you could see it as kind of cute, in a way?" Hermione had mused. "Think of it as...oh, I don't know, taking in a lost puppy. You know Harry's the puppy type."

"Yeah, except this puppy's all teeth," Ginny replied.

"With venomous fangs," Ron added. "Sounds like something Hagrid would like. Oi, d'you think we could actually pawn him off on Hagrid? He'd keep him fed and everything; hey, he might even housebreak him!"

Ron was the only one with any sense around here. He was quickly becoming her new favourite older brother. He was always all fire, all anger. He was strong, unrelenting.

"I don't know why you're getting so worked up, Ronald," Mum had said to him in the middle of one of his outbursts, "Andromeda told me that Draco is a wonderfully nice boy. Why, even Harry told her so."

"HARRY?" Ron interrogated Harry later. "Did you really say that? Malfoy and nice in the same sentence?" He wore a look of complete and utter betrayal.

"Erm, long story, Ron," Harry had winced.

Harry was the worst of them all. He should have hated Malfoy, hated his burden, instead of spending all his time pandering to him. He should have been at his girlfriend's side, in these times of need, instead of with the boy whose life mission, it seemed, had been to make Harry Potter's life miserable.

Something had to be done, and soon. And so Ginny had approached him, and she spoke the deadly words that every red-blooded male in a relationship dreaded to hear:

"We need to talk."

As predicted, Harry gave her a look as if someone had taken his girlfriend and replaced her with a boggart.

"Talk, Ginny? About what?"

Ginny sighed. "I don't know, Harry. Things just haven't been right since...well. We all miss Fred."

Harry nodded, let her slip into his arms. She was comfortable there, in a place that felt truly safe, secure; they felt so right around her.

"I just wish I knew how to help George," she said mournfully, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I never know what to say to him."

"I never know either," Harry admitted. "It's the hardest on him...at least he has Percy. And...er, Malfoy."

"Right, Malfoy," Ginny said, letting the bitterness creep into her voice."Your new _pet_. I've hardly seen you ever since you brought _him_ home...And is it right to have someone like that with us, when the whole family's a mess?"

Harry had looked almost relieved, as if he had expected this confrontation. And yet, how could he not have? Anybody could see how much energy and effort he spent on that worthless worm. Anybody could see how broken up their family was, how devastated they all were.

"I know it's weird, Ginny..." he began. "It's been a difficult week for everyone. I'm sorry I'm inflicting him on everyone like this, but I didn't know what else I could have done."

"You could have never taken him home to begin with," Ginny offered helpfully, if a touch resentfully.

"It was either this or St. Mungo's," Harry told her. The way he said St. Mungo's made it seem like he could not possibly even fathom sending anyone there, he might as well have been saying Azkaban. Ginny could not see how it could possibly be a bad idea; there, at least, he would be under 24-hour surveillance, he would be taken care of by medical professionals, and, most importantly, he would be somebody else's problem.

"So? You're not even related to him, Harry, you just went to school together! And, as I recall quite clearly, you didn't even like him, then! You _hated_ him! What changed?"

"Everything's changed now, Ginny, you know that."

She wondered if it sounded as lame and pathetic to his ears as it did to hers. It wasn't even true - Malfoy hadn't changed, he was still his same vile, poisonous self - only now he posed a very real threat to her, to her family, to Harry - to everything she held dear in life.

"He isn't your obligation. He shouldn't be. Can't somebody else take him? Isn't Mrs. Tonks his aunt or something?"

"Yes...his legal guardian. She was the one who asked me to take him in, to help watch over him...She really cares about him, I know..."

"Well, let her take care of him, then, if she loves him so much!"

"She couldn't, Ginny," Harry's voice was strained. "She has Teddy to worry about...He doesn't have anywhere else to go. Nobody else to depend on." The sound of her name on his lips, usually a sound she treasured, was distasteful now, a plea. He was begging her to understand. "He lost both his parents, Ginny." _Please, please._

"Who cares? He deserves it, doesn't he, after all he's done, him and his entire rotten family! They're all horrid, Harry, can't you see that? And he's going to be even worse now, he should suffer, if it weren't for his aunt I'd still have my brother-"

She burst into tears now, sobbing openly. Harry looked terrified, tried to clutch her to him but she pushed him away.

"I can't stand the idea of him living with us...He's a _Death Eater_, Harry..."

"I know, Ginny..." Harry said. And then he was silent, letting her sob. Brooding, probably. He tended to do that. He made another attempt to gather her in his arms and this time she let him.

"Ginny, Ginny, I don't know what to tell you..." he tried again. "But he's not a killer. He's not his father, he's not his aunt. I...I was there the night Dumbledore died...he could have killed him, but he didn't do it. And he saved my life when he could have turned me over to the rest of the Death Eaters...His parents gave up their lives for him, please, Ginny...They loved him and now they're gone..."

"_Fred_ loved me. Fred loved us and we loved him!"

"It was war, Ginny," Harry said, his voice sounded thin, tired. She could feel him withdrawing from her, so now she grabbed onto his arms.

_None of that brings my brother back._

"We have to do the best we can with what we have left," Harry was saying.

"I just never see you anymore," she finally said. "We need you, Harry, _I need you_."

"He does, too...he needs this...someplace to go."

"He doesn't love you! He doesn't even like you! No matter what you do, he'll never appreciate it, he'll never know, for all you know he hates you and he's dangerous—"

She could feel herself getting hysterical but she could not help it. With every word, every accusation, she could see Harry flinch and she didn't care. She wanted him to hurt and to see it, she needed him to feel the way that she hurt. She wanted to cry again but she fought it back. Why was he so stupid?

"Ginny," he said. "It's horrible for _everyone_."

"It's worse for us! How can you even compare him with us, we didn't choose to be evil, to follow the Dark Lord—"

"And what if he didn't, either?"

She stared at him in shock. "I can't believe you're defending him to me. His father tried to kill me, Harry, and he almost got Bill killed-"

"So he deserves what he got, is that it?" Harry asked her now, his voice harsh. He was upset with her now, and part of her thought _good, let him be upset_ and the other part said _we can't have that_. He started pulling away from her.

"Oh, Harry. I'm sorry," she said, grabbing onto his hands. Her eyes pleaded with him, immediately apologetic. "It's just so hard for me. And not having you around..."

That did the trick. His green eyes immediately softened, gentled. "I'm sorry, too, Ginny," Harry said. "I know you need me." He squeezed her hands and held onto them tightly.

"You're doing the right thing," she forced herself to say. The words tasted bitter in her mouth. Harry looked at her, eyes filled with unspeakable gratitude. He used his sleeve to wipe away some of her tears.

She rubbed her eyes. Her face felt puffy from crying. "Look at me, I'm an absolute mess." She managed a smile.

"Nah," said Harry, "you're beautiful."

And it was when he said stupid cliched lines like that that she really did love him, that she could forgive him of almost anything. She shook her head at him. "Oh, shut up, you flatterer." She sighed and leaned her head against him. He felt sturdy and strong. He was here to support her. She knew that. "I just miss you, sometimes," she admitted to him, softly, and that much was true. "That's all...I mean, if I didn't know better, I might be jealous or something." And it was easy to joke about it, easy to she smile teasingly up at him, looking at him from under her lashes, the way she knew he liked best.

"Ginny!" Harry laughed, his bright, wonderful laugh that made her insides feel all warm and bright. "Don't be ridiculous." His arms came around her, hugged her tight, hugged her the way that he always should, and hopefully, always would. And then all was right with the world again.

"We'll spend more time together," Harry promised. "I'll try to be available more. You know you can come to me, if you need me. We'll even go out, just us, okay?"

"Just us...are you sure?" she teased. "No double-dates with Ron or anything?"

Harry looked vaguely disturbed at the suggestion. "Having death threats thrown at me every time I tried to touch you isn't exactly my idea of romantic."

Ginny grinned and snuggled closer to him. "And what is, exactly, your idea of romantic?"

Harry got flustered. "I...uh..." He was ever so cute when he got flustered.

Ginny laughed, kissing him on his nose. "It's okay, you can show me instead of telling me." She let her expression turn mock-serious. "And no pets on these dates? No weredoggies you have to look after?"

"The doggy stays at home," Harry promised her solemnly. "I'll find a pet-sitter."

"Make sure it's one that sprays him with water if he tries to bite," Ginny said, seeking a kiss that was happily granted.

* * *

Draco had never liked rare meat in all his life. It had vaguely disgusted him, the thought of all that blood. It was unsanitary. You could get worms from it, he was sure, growing and wriggling inside you.

He actually was never very fond of steak in general; even less now, having seen the things that he had seen. It looked like a slab of dead animal. Disturbing how dead flesh and muscle and blood could look so similar, whether animal or human...

"I have a surprise for you," Mrs. Weasley had said. "I guarantee you'll love it. It's good for you, too, you know, you're so pale. You look sick, dear, it's not right. You need some more meat in your diet so you can grow up good and strong."

She sounded so proud, so happy; she wanted to mother him, maybe give him the warm, matronly influence that she thought he had never received. He heard her weeping at nights.

The polite refusal was on the tip of the tongue until the steak was set down in front of him; the rich scent of it curled around him, as enticing as a lover. He could smell the meat. He could smell the blood. It made his mouth water. It was intoxicating.

"Bill really developed a taste for it...after..." She trailed off. "I thought you might like it, too." She smiled at him, hopefully, her face warm and lovely and nurturing. There was blood on her flowered apron.

He cut it open, delicately, the way he always did, and when the blade sliced into the soft meat red juices flooded the plate. The first bite was almost orgasmic – he trembled with the urge to pick it up with both hands, rip into it with his teeth.

He ate ravenously, crushing it with his teeth, the flavours of blood and meat washing over his tongue.

_How nice this is how good but wouldn't it be better raw hot wet when the blood is hot in your mouth_

Mrs Weasley was watching his eager hunger with approval, with a sort of hungry look in her own eyes. She clearly worshipped at the altar of Home Cooking, where a filling meal was the Saviour, body, blood, and all. She was a Mediwitch in her own right, where her prescription was comforting food and lots of it. She wanted to fill them up with hot food, stuff them so full with pastries and pies and meats that there was no more room for grief.

Afterwards, Draco stared at his empty plate, astonished, feeling vaguely nauseous at the thought of all that dead animal inside of him. He had the impulse to lick the plate clean and wilfully resisted, disgusted with himself. It made him feel sick.

But even worse was the wish that he had more, all of it rich and bloody, give the animal to him whole, even...

Things were changing.

He could feel something growing inside of him, dark and strange and wanting.

He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and it came away with a vivid pink stain. No Wolfsbane potion and the full moon in two weeks. Draco hoped that chains would be enough.

* * *

"I can't believe it! Seventy-eight books and still nothing!" Hermione cried. Instead of despair, however, her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, the way they did when she had been presented with a particularly difficult, long and tedious essay. Since they had gone home, she had done nothing but read; at first it was all Muggle psychotherapy texts on Grief and Bereavement and Trauma, now it was magical texts about werewolves (or the lack thereof). Her hair was messy and she was developing shadows around her eyes. Harry didn't know the last time she had slept.

Ron had been right about her from the very beginning: she was absolutely mental.

"The wolf myth goes back to ancient times...one of the earliest examples being the classical story of Lycaon in Greece. And, after all this time, there seem to be no recorded texts with extensive information on the subject!" Hermione continued. "It's absolutely fascinating...why, I might even be able to write the first..."

Harry was suddenly forcibly reminded of the maniac mediwizard at St. Mungo's.

Malfoy was eyeing her uncomfortably, as if he suspected that, at any moment, she would demand that he lie down on an operating table so she could run a scalpel through all his vital parts.

"The reason why there are no texts is because all of the researchers end up tragically dead," Malfoy clearly saw it as his duty to remind her.

"Oh, Harry wouldn't let that happen," Hermione said breezily. "Anyway, if we don't have any textual information to draw from, we will need to gather our own data. Any subjective observations, Malfoy?"

Malfoy ticked off his observations on his pale fingers. "I like rare meat. My hearing is sharper. I have a more delicate sense of smell. Therefore, having your boyfriend here is both distracting and offensive to me, and therefore detrimental to our work."

"Oh, don't worry, Malfoy, being in the same room as you is an offence to all five senses!" Ron snapped. He had an open book in front of him, but his notepad was covered with doodles.

"New condition of lycanthropy induces heightened experience of senses in subject..." Hermione murmured as her quill worked furiously. "You really don't need to be here, Ron. I told you you'd find it boring."

Ron drew himself up nobly; it gave one the impression of a white knight. "It's my duty to be here, 'Mione, immoral scum like Malfoy can't be trusted. Your virtue's at stake!"

"I really doubt he'd try anything with Harry and Ginny sitting right there," Hermione reasoned logically.

"Oh, you don't know that, Granger," Malfoy said. "We Slytherins are all depraved creatures, haven't you heard? I sometimes quite fancy an audience to cheer me on while I perform."

Ron spluttered.

Harry was there to mitigate, to make sure that nobody killed anybody – both nobodies being Ron and Malfoy. At this rate, Malfoy was bound to either give Ron a heart attack or provoke him into casting Unforgivables.

Ginny was sitting next to him. She was browsing through a Quidditch magazine.

"Say," she said, "Check out the Cannons' new Chaser. Think he'll stand a chance this season?" She was leaning towards Harry, the magazine open towards him, Quidditch players zooming back and forth the glossy page.

"No, I haven't gotten hairier anywhere," Malfoy was saying to Hermione. He had a wicked gleam in his eye. "Care to make sure of that for me? In the name of research, of course."

Ron spluttered again and Hermione was pretending to look scandalised. Only pretending, Harry thought. She was probably secretly curious.

"Hm, sorry, Ginny," Harry said. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing, Harry," she said irritably and sighed, then sweetened her tone, "It wasn't important." He smiled at her and kissed her temple, but he could have sworn she muttered something under her breath.

"As much as I love to talk about myself, this is about as useful as a hairbrush is to Potter. We should be working on developing a Wolfsbane potion instead."

"Oh, I've got that covered already," Hermione said, slamming another pile of books down on the table. It was a wonder her arms weren't muscular and manly, considering all the weight-lifting that she did.

Malfoy made a pleased noise, caressing a volume of _Most Potente Potions_ as if it were his girlfriend, or something. Hermione was smiling with blatant approval.

Both of them were very strange, Harry decided.

No Wolfsbane potion. When the transformation came, it would come in full. Malfoy would truly become a monster then, bloodthirsty and dangerous.

Harry hoped that a shared love of solving ridiculous challenges was enough to keep Malfoy from killing his researcher. Or that a shared love of anything was enough to keep him from killing anyone, really.

That, and the chains.

* * *

"Draco, there's someone here to see you," Mrs. Weasley had called. He had eagerly left the research session; he didn't seem to quite have the concentration that he used to. There was something humming inside of him that made it impossible to sit quietly for more than an hour.

Draco stopped short when he entered the room, his breath stuck in his throat. The sunlight framing her curls, it was his Aunt Bellatrix back from the dead. In her arms, she held an infant swaddled in blankets.

She smiled when she saw him, carefully handing the baby to Molly.

"Draco," she said simply, pulling him into a hug. Aunt Bella had hugged him once with a strange intensity, and she was weird. She had smelled like antique furniture and overpoweringly sweet roses and damp soil. This woman's embrace was tight and warm, she smelled bright and clean and fresh - like baby powder. She pulled back, looked at him intently. "Let me get a look at you. You're all grown up."

She wasn't Bellatrix. She was Bella if she had lived a different life, a happier, gentler one, her face open and kind. Her curly hair was soft brown, not black, and she didn't dress the melodramatic Gothic way that dear Aunt Bella had so loved.

"You look like your father," she said. He felt a pang in his chest. She reached up and stroked a sharp cheekbone, and Draco wanted to pull back, expected himself to shove her and scream 'don't touch me!' but her fingers were soft and the touch was so gentle it made a funny lump form in his throat. "But you have Cissy's bone structure," she said, and her voice was soft and slightly rough and she smiled, her eyes wet.

There was something in her voice that reminded him of his mother. Draco couldn't breathe. His chest squeezed tighter and tighter and he wanted to burst out sobbing. He wanted to curl up into himself, he wanted to throw his arms around her and hold on tight.

He stood there and stared at her instead.

"Oh, where are my manners. Your mother would say I've gone and lost them again," she said, squeezing her eyes shut, huffing it out in one breath. "Draco, darling, I'm your Aunt Andy."

"Aunt...Andy...?" Draco echoed, dumbfounded.

Draco had heard of Andromeda Black, his mother's sister who had lost her mind and run away. She had been savaged by a Mudblood, they said, and consequently developed a sort of Stockholm Syndrome and fell in love with her rapist.

He would never understand women.

Andromeda was never a topic for polite conversation. When he was younger, if he begged enough, Father would sometimes tell him the story in hushed, conspiratorial tones, divulging to him a sordid secret – "Proof that Mudbloods poison the bloodline, my dear boy." He always looked around shiftily afterwards, as if checking to see if Mother was within earshot. Mothers tended to disapprove of sordid secrets and all other sorts of fun.

Even Aunt Bella said that Andromeda was crazy, and Bella sometimes talked to the walls.

The woman standing before him didn't appear insane, but looks could be deceiving, Draco reminded himself. Yet she was family all the same, and that was important.  
Even if she was a Tonks now. Draco gave a mental shudder with the thought. What an awful name.

"I know you've never met me before, but your mother sent me photos of you all the while you were growing up..."

Mother gave photos of him to a madwoman? Oh no, that wasn't suspicious in the least.

He didn't have a single photograph or anything of his parents with him. The ache in his chest grew heavier.

"And this is your cousin Teddy, Draco." She gestured at the baby in Mrs. Weasley's arms. Mrs. Weasley was cooing at him, smiling gently. "He's sleeping right now, but he'll want to play later. Come, take a look."

It was the first time he had ever seen a baby up close; this one was even related to him. Little Teddy was tiny and fascinating; hair soft and blue, small hands with perfect nails. Everything about him was pink and soft.

"Hello," Draco breathed, afraid to wake him.

Andromeda looked at him, noticing the way he stared at the child. "Do you want to hold him?"

Draco's eyes snapped up to her face, taken by surprise. "Oh, no, that's quite all right. I shouldn't, I'm no good with small things—"

"It's okay, Draco. He's the sweetest little one, and such a sound sleeper." Andromeda smiled at him. "I trust you."

_I trust you._

"Hold out your arms like this," she showed him, placing the bundle of baby into his arms. "Be sure to support his head."

He was warm, his skin so perfectly soft. He could see every individual eyelash, dark and resting on his round cheeks. He was so small, so small and so delicate. A fragile new life, so easy to hurt.

_Easy easy careful easy children are so easy rip out their limbs infants have a soft spot on the tops of their little heads that's where all the brains are_

Teddy yawned a tiny yawn and stretched a tiny arm, blinking green eyes at Draco before going back to sleep again. His rosebud mouth parted slightly.

"He likes you," Andromeda smiled.

"You ought to take him back. I'll drop him or something," Draco insisted, cradling him carefully. He could feel the baby's heart beating rapidly against his chest. He could see the soft spot in the skull pulsing underneath all that soft blue hair.

This life relied on him.

"We should take a picture," cooed Mrs. Weasley, smiling softly. Apparently women turned into happy doves when confronted with babies. "Draco, you'll be a wonderful father one day."

"Don't scare me like that, Molly," he said amiably, in hushed tones, "or I really will drop him." He rocked the baby gently – he was so warm, completely trusting; he didn't know hate or death and Draco never wanted him to learn. He was a wonder, this small thing, perfect in every way, untainted.

"He really needs to be put in a quiet room, to sleep. Molly, would you mind terribly watching Teddy for me, just for a little while? Draco and I have years of catching up to do."

"Of course, Andromeda," Mrs. Weasley smiled, all too happy to have a baby to play with.

* * *

They went out into the garden. Draco felt as if it were the first sunny day in a long, long time.

"Family has always been very important to me, Draco," Andromeda was saying. "You have to understand that. I know you may find that hard to believe; I can only imagine the kind of stories that you've been told about me.

"I was very young when I ran away; probably just your age. I was young and stupid. I was in love, you see."

Draco didn't see. He saw no reason to abandon everyone who had loved you and taken care of you your entire life. "Mm," he said, more as an acknowledgement that she had spoken than anything else.

Andromeda looked at him and smiled, as if she, too, were skilled in Legilimency, reading his thoughts without a word.

"You will understand one day, I am sure. Love is a scary, powerful, all-consuming force, it eats you up, makes you could feel like you could never want for anything else. You really do lose your head over it." She laughed, a bit bitterly. "I'm sure everybody thought that I had absolutely lost my mind."

"That sounds like a disease I'd rather not catch," Draco said. He still wasn't entirely positive that this dear aunt of his wasn't stark, raving mad.

"Maybe it will catch you," Andromeda teased. "You _are_ still young. I suppose I'm trying to explain myself the way I never could to your mother – that I did it for love. She was lucky. She fell in love with a handsome, Pureblooded Slytherin boy from a wealthy family, with whom she could have pretty little blonde-haired white-skinned children. We cannot all be so lucky; we cannot choose with whom we fall in love."

"True enough," reasoned Draco. "But honestly, Aunt Andromeda, a man named Ted Tonks? Just think of the rhymes your children would have been teased with! Tonks bonks monks until they honk."

Andromeda laughed. "Oh, Draco. I see you have considered this."

"It's all on my List of Considerations Before I Fall in Love," Draco responded gravely. "It's right up there between How Frightful Does My Lover Look First Thing in the Morning and Does My Lover Put Mayonnaise on Eggs, Because That is an Abomination."

"I suppose I'm not as careful as you, my dear nephew," Andromeda said, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement.

"I'm not careful enough where it counts," Draco said, suddenly solemn, and he let his aunt put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked away, setting his mouth into a grim line.

"I never ran away from family, Draco," she told him quietly. "I'm here for you."

"Here for me means sending me away, does it?" Draco jerked away from her hand. "That's fascinating. Not running away from family means shacking up with your Mudblood lover, never contacting your family ever again?"

"Draco," Andromeda said, all seriousness now, "Do you think they wanted contact from me after that? I ran away from our traditions and values, yes, I ran away from everything that said I was forbidden to marry the man I loved. If that makes me a blood traitor, then so be it. We make our choices and then we have to live with the consequences.

"Did I miss my family every single night? Of course. Did I cry for Mother, Father, Bella, Cissy? Absolutely. Would I do it again, given the choice? In a heartbeat."

"Forgive my rudeness, Aunt Andromeda," Draco said, "but that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Andromeda laughed. "That's just what your mother told me, too. 'Don't do it, Andy, it's idiotic, it's as good as familial suicide,' she said." They paused now in front of a patch of flowers. Andromeda focused on their bright petals, her eyes growing misty. "I loved your mother, Draco. She never wrote back to me, over the years, but she sent me news from time to time. I know she read my letters. I suppose that means that somewhere, for her, I still existed."

The tears were falling freely down her face now. Draco watched her and did not move.

She lost a sister that she had given up over twenty years ago.

_She has no right..._

"Don't talk to me about _love_," Draco sneered. "Hate my father, I suppose? Hate my grandparents for disowning you?"

"Draco," Andromeda said, "I could never truly hate any of my family. Not even Bella, no matter who she ended up killing..."

She laughed again, a bit bitterly. "I am a bit stupid like that; you're right."

"I sent you presents every year, for birthdays and Christmas, you know," she said. "I don't know if you ever received them, or if you ever even noticed; I'm sure you were spoiled just the way Cissy and Bella and I all were."

She was right; Draco received hundreds of presents year after year, and he never thought to question who they were from. He always thanked his parents; they had always given him everything that he wanted and everything that he didn't even know that he wanted.

"I am not asking for your forgiveness, for absolution, or even for your understanding. I am not suggesting that I can make up for the eighteen years of your life that I've missed. I know I cannot ask for any of that, and it would be unfair to ask it of you. But...I want to get to know you, now. Now that I have the opportunity to."

"If you care about me, if you ever loved my mother at all, you wouldn't send me to live here," Draco found himself snapping at her. "Why can't I live with you?"

"The Weasleys are good people," Andromeda replied, simply. "You wouldn't want to be living with an old woman and a baby, anyway...you should be around young people your age-"

"I hate Potter, Aunt Andromeda," he responded automatically. "It's absolutely miserable here."

Andromeda tittered. "Oh? What a surprise, but not too shocking, I suppose. Believe me, my dear," she said archly, "I am acting in your best interests. There was a time when you could have gone many places simply on the Malfoy name alone. That's not so true anymore, now is it?"

She was absolutely right.

"Well, he hates me, too. I can't stand living on his pity..."

"You're a proud boy, Draco Malfoy. Good. I wouldn't have expected any less from you. But," her eyes gleamed, "I think you will soon find that you should forget everything you think you know about your relationship."

"How do you know?" Draco challenged. "You don't even know me."

"That's right," she agreed. "I don't. Out of everyone in your life right now, who would you say has known you the longest? Who would you say knows you the best?" she challenged back. "Who knows your likes and dislikes, your ambitions, your dreams," she took a hold of his left wrist, "the deep, dark parts of you?"

Draco was silent.

"I'm not powerful and I'm not rich, not anymore, Draco, I'm just a woman, and I'm very tired. I hate to say it, but I'm getting old. I'm sure you understand. Harry Potter, on the other hand-"

Saviour of the Wizarding World.

"Legally, he is your family now. He is bound to you by word and by law. He is your guardian, your caretaker..."

_Keeper._

"...And you know, Harry Potter is a very good friend for you to have," and when she smiled, Draco recognised something of his own mother in her.

"Aunt Andy...?"

"You're a smart boy, Draco. I'm sure you know what I mean." She smiled serenely at him. "Family is important, my dear, I know that you know that."

She held his gaze with her cool blue eyes – his mother's eyes.

"And I always take care of my own."

* * *

Harry and Ginny came into the living room to find Malfoy and Mrs. Tonks already there, chatting animatedly as if Malfoy had known his aunt his entire life.

"Who's a little bit of dragon spit? You! Who's fluffy and blue? You are! Yes you are! Aren't you?"

Not exactly grown-up dialogue.

It was then that Harry realised what he mistook for conversation was actually baby-babble. And Malfoy was holding the baby.

_Malfoy_ was holding the _baby_. And all parties involved seemed perfectly content with this arrangement.

The late afternoon sun poured into the room through a crack in the curtains. The gold glinted off of his pale blonde hair, making it look white. He was smiling down at the child in his arms, and Harry was surprised by the expression – it was very different from the wry, sarcastic twist of the lips that Malfoy so often turned on him. It looked a bit crooked and unsure on a mouth that was accustomed to sneering, but it was genuinely happy all the same.

"Ah, I should move," Malfoy said to his aunt, squinting at the sunlight falling into his eyes. "We don't like that sun, do we, Ted-kins?"

The baby made noises at him.

"Baby!" Ginny cried, losing her wits the way that most girls do when confronted with infants. Malfoy looked up sharply; the open expression was gone now, his face clouded. Ginny ran over to a smiling Mrs. Tonks and a scowling Malfoy, who used his body to shield Teddy, as if imagining she might hurt him.

"Why hello there, Harry, Ginny," Mrs. Tonks greeted. "Won't you join us?"

"Hi, Mrs. Tonks. Hi, Teddy," said Ginny to the bundle, forgetting her hatred of Malfoy in lieu of BABY. "Let me hold him." She reached out to take the baby from him.

"No, you'll drop him," Malfoy said, turning his body even further away from her. "On his head. And then he'll go through life a dimwit, is that what you want?"

"At least I'm not thinking of EATING him!" Ginny said, attacking from the other side now, clearly intending to snatch the baby as if he were a Snitch.

Harry got a brief image of the two of them in their Seeker uniforms and on their brooms, chasing after a golden-and-winged Teddy as he flitted through the air.

"Children!" reprimanded Mrs. Tonks. "Stop it. You're upsetting Teddy." Both Ginny and Malfoy looked dutifully abashed. Teddy cooed. "Now, Draco, let Ginny have a turn holding Teddy – you've been playing with him all afternoon."

Malfoy looked like he was about to protest – either that he had to let Ginny hold Teddy or that he had been playing with the baby all afternoon. Mrs. Tonks took Teddy from him easily, however, and placed him gently in Ginny's eager arms.

"Harry, you can have a turn next," Mrs. Tonks said.

"Er, no, that's quite all right," said Harry. The idea was frightening rather than appealing. Babies were so alarmingly fragile –any number of mishaps could befall them.

Teddy squirmed with Ginny, as if trying to get comfortable. Ginny shushed him and rocked him but still he looked upset. Then he began to fuss.

"Ah, not to fret, Weaslette, it can't be helped," said Malfoy, faux-sympathetically. "He was cursed to be born with actual good taste." He smirked.

"Nonsense," huffed Ginny, "you like me, don't you Teddy-Weddy? My ickle fuzzy-wuzzy Teddy bear?"

Teddy screwed up his tiny face and turned red. He looked as if he were about to cry.

"It's being around you that's upsetting him!" Ginny said, glaring at Malfoy. "Babies can tell when people are evil."

"He didn't start looking like that until you waltzed in here and snatched him from me," Malfoy informed her smoothly.

"He was clearly miserable," Ginny insisted. "I was rescuing him from the likes of you," she said, even as the baby began wriggling in her arms.

"Baby-thief," Malfoy accused. Then he sniffed and began laughing. "Well, what do you know, guess he likes you after all. Smells like he's made a present for you."

It took Ginny a minute or two to detect it. "Oh, what's that awful smell!"

Suddenly, nobody wanted to hold the baby.

Ginny thrust Teddy back at Mrs. Tonks while Malfoy laughed uproariously. Harry fought back a laugh.

"That's disgusting! Babies are gross!" Ginny declared, Teddy being held away from her now, as if he were a contagion of disease. "Harry, let's get some nice pets instead of children."

"Pets poo, too," Harry pointed out.

"I'll take care of it," said Mrs. Tonks, plucking Teddy from Ginny's outstretched arms. "Honestly, children, it's something you're all going to have to learn how to do."

Ginny was horrified. "Not me! Not ever!" She looked at Harry. "You can learn how, though."

Malfoy was equally horrified. "I thought that's what they invented _servants_ for. Or at least house elves."

Harry was glad Hermione wasn't around to launch into a tirade of house-elves-deserve-equal-rights-so-you-better-learn-how-to-change-your-own-poopy-diapers.  
Mrs. Tonks tsk'ed at all of them. Teddy was no longer fussy, but cooing and gurgling happily now.

"You're a smart and handsome boy, Teddywinks," Malfoy said to him, as if whispering a secret, "You make your cousin Draco very proud."

* * *

That second night that they slept together, Harry was still surprised when the door to his room opened softly.

"Can I..." The blonde had said; he seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. And then, "Oh, sod it."

He had stalked purposefully across the floor, plopped himself down on the bed. Harry obediently moved over, letting Malfoy pull the covers over them both.

And that was that.

The next night Malfoy slipped into bed with him, without saying a word. Harry listened to his breathing until it deepened and he knew that he was asleep.

In the mornings the bed was empty and Malfoy was as hateful as ever. Or, at least making a good effort to make himself as annoying as possible. Harry would have thought that he dreamt Malfoy's presence at night if it weren't for the indentation next to him, the occasional strands of light hair on the pillow case. Well, that and, why would he be dreaming of Malfoy, anyway.

* * *

Malfoy slept with his back to him; Harry was careful that their bodies never touched more than necessary. His eyes always traced the scars on Malfoy's skin, white and slicing into parts covered up with clothing.

He couldn't help staring at the scar tissue, so severe and raised on what used to be a smooth, pale surface, white on white. Sometimes he wondered, vaguely, what they felt like, if they would be rough to the touch, or puckered and smooth.

Oddly enough, there were no scars on his face, unlike what had happened to Bill. In contrast to the rest of his body, the skin on his face was almost grotesquely perfect, so that a stranger could never know what horrors lay just beneath the surface. It was as if his attacker had deliberately left his face completely unmarred; it made a mockery of the rest of his body.

Sometimes he would let out a moan or whimper but he never thrashed, not again, not like that first night. Harry never heard him cry again, but sometimes, in the morning, his pillow was wet.

The first time that Malfoy had seemed to shake uncontrollably; Harry hadn't known what to do. He had reached out, his hand hovering over his body – over his shoulder, his back – finally, he settled it lightly in the pale hair. That seemed to suffice. Malfoy calmed at his touch.

These nights, when it happened, Harry shifted closer the scant inches it took to close the distance between them. Malfoy's body would still then, tense and then finally relax.

Harry never fell asleep until Malfoy was soundly sleeping.

He understood what it was like, to be alone in the darkness, to want anything to feel less alone. In those times that he remembered being small inside a cupboard full of spiders – when he had had a nightmare back then, screams and a flash of green light that he didn't understand – he had hugged his knees and squeezed himself into the tightest corner. The pressure on both sides of his body made it seem as if the walls hugged him, as if they could protect him and care for him when nobody did.

He understood what it was like, having to live in a house full of people who hated you.

Malfoy had only managed to win over Mrs. Weasley and George. But Mrs. Weasley was just attempting to be maternal; she didn't see him as his own person, but rather as another mouth to feed, yet another chirping baby bird under her all-encompassing wing. She was trying to fill the void that Fred's death had left within her, she was looking for a replacement, a distraction, anything. George was only half a person most days, practically a ghost of his former self – you couldn't develop anything with someone like that. Percy was fairly indifferent, for the most part, and Ron and Ginny were very vocal about their dislike. Mr. Weasley, however, was possibly the worst of them all. He didn't even speak to him, tried to avoid looking whenever possible. It was the ostrich strategy – if he didn't see him, then he didn't exist.

And whatever their relationship with him, they would never see this side of Malfoy, his fears in the dark; Harry was the only one who would bear witness, and the only one who could take them away. Lying next to him in bed, Harry would be strong, unafraid, awake and vigilant when in came the nightmares and in came the terrors. Malfoy could stay away from him during the day all he liked, but at night...At night, Malfoy needed Harry, and Harry would be there, as always, to save and rescue.

It was all he knew how to do, all that he could do.

* * *

Harry took his Invisibility Cloak out of the trunk where he had kept it, untouched since he had used it last. It was soft and familiar now, the comforting weight of it, the way it slid over his hands like water. He had always believed in the power of it because of the power it had given him, the protection and the freedom, long before he knew who it had belonged to, long before he ever discovered it could ever be such ancient magic as one of the Deathly Hallows. And it would serve him faithfully once again, tonight.

For practically every night since that first night, Malfoy had been disappearing into George and Percy's room for hours at a time. Sometimes it was all three of them in that room together, sometimes it was just George and Malfoy. The door was always closed, and as far as Harry could tell, the room was always very quiet.

Then again, Silencing charms were invented for a reason.

As Malfoy's legal guardian and caretaker, Harry didn't think it was quite right for him to be so secretive. Who knew what he was getting up to in there, what with his wicked werewolf ways.

George didn't talk much to anybody these days, although Percy hovered over him constantly. It was too easy just to not look into his face, to avoid the look of desperation, the face of someone left to drown. When he did talk, he started sentences and he didn't finish them; or sometimes he spoke in non-sequiturs, as if responding to something nobody had said.

_We all miss Fred_, Ginny had said, and that much was true, but no, it wasn't quite the same for George as it was for everyone else.

So what could he and Malfoy possibly be doing, spending so much time together?

The door closed softly behind them, Harry included; the door locked with a click.

"So," said George.

"So," said Malfoy.

"Shall we get right to it, then?"

"Unless you'd rather keep me waiting," Malfoy replied smoothly, a smile quirking his lips.

One look at that expression told Harry everything that he needed to know; Malfoy was absolutely up to no good.

But it was George who moved, not Malfoy, rummaging from what appeared to be a sack pulled from under the bed. A glistening object fell out onto the carpet, George picked it up, and said, "So here.

"This is one of our Laughing Lollies. Fr-We thought it up, before...They make you laugh until you cry, for all those tense situations, you know."

Malfoy reached out for it and George handed it to him. Their fingers touched, Harry noted.

George frowned. "So far they're not very successful. It seems that I can't stop the laughing until I hit the crying bit, and then I can't stop the crying. You really just end up a maniacal, snotty mess."

Malfoy, who had unwrapped the sweet, in the process of opening his mouth to lick it experimentally, immediately closed his mouth. "Whatever, it's yellow. I like the red ones best, anyway."

"We'll make red ones once we've perfected it," George said. Malfoy wrapped the candy up again.

"I remember confiscating so many of your sweets. Did you know that Millicent Bulstrode was using the Puking Pastilles to try and lose weight?"

"We never thought of trying that before," George said thoughtfully, as if seriously considering the notion. "Insecure teenage girls: our untapped market. Did it work?"

"We never really found out - she got dehydration and collapsed so they took her to the Infirmary. I suppose she did lose some weight after the whole ordeal. But insecure teenage girls will buy anything."

They were silent, for a moment. Malfoy sighed and leaned back against the bed.

"Want any Firewhiskey tonight?" George asked. He pulled a crate out from under the bed; it was filled with bottles, about half of them empty, some of them half-empty.

Malfoy shook his head, waved his hand 'no.' "Save some for the funeral. You're going to need it."

"It's not a party without Firewhiskey," George agreed. He poured himself a glass but made no attempt to raise it to his lips.

Harry wished that he hadn't come. This felt wrong, disgusting, almost voyeuristic.

"Lately I wonder about Siamese twins," George said, looking into the amber liquid.

"What do you mean?"

"They don't split all the way in womb, right? We split, so we came out separate. Fred first by seven minutes. But we could have been that. Two people, one body."

"Don't they sometimes come out kind of awkward? Like one arse, one pair of legs?" Harry imagined all sorts of monstrosities.

George smiled at him. "One dick."

"Hey, that's one less worry on your mum's mind," Malfoy said.

George snorted, and then grew quiet again. "Sometimes I think we would have been better off if we came out Siamese. We always won those three-legged races, you know."

"Then you would have both died."

"Yes."

Neither of them said anything, both probably contemplating that particular 'what if.'

Suddenly Malfoy spoke, "But what if you didn't? I mean, what if only one of you died. And then you'd still be stuck together forever, but you'd be lugging him around everywhere you went."

Malfoy was an absolutely appalling excuse for a human being, with a surprising shortage of tact, considering his upbringing.

George smiled to himself instead. "Like I said, better off." He paused. "It's a great conversation piece. I mean, imagine the lines you could use at parties."

"The only one I'm coming up with is 'dead weight.'"

"Forgive my brother, he's dead tired."

"Have you met my brother Fred? He is dead, this is his head," Malfoy carelessly rhymed.

"Dead Fred," George echoed softly. He looked down, took a quick gulp of Firewhiskey.

"Sorry," Malfoy said quickly. He didn't sound very sorry.

"No, no, it wasn't bad actually. It's a decent enough rhyme, it's just that your meter is off."

"You know," said Malfoy helpfully, "sometimes Siamese twins are connected chest to chest. I saw a pair at the circus once. Or imagine being connected at the groin. I can't even begin to think how awkward that would be - every time you had to use the toilet would be an adventure!"

"You might even say," Malfoy continued, "that it could be a real pee party."

And to Harry's disbelief, George actually laughed.

* * *

Draco had never cared for the Weasley twins. They had locked Montague in a wardrobe where he had almost starved to death; they had held him down while Potter punched him. They had bullied him, intimidated him; they were mirror images of trouble.

George wasn't the Weasley twins. George was just George, and he was funny, he was hesitant, and he was hurting, and the hurt in his soul was something Draco recognised. The emptiness was the same, the exhaustion, the pain; the feeling that he could never be whole again.

"Mum cries about it, of course. I hear her all the time," George said.

"I do, too," Draco said.

"Everybody says...they miss him. They do. I know they do. But they still have each other and I know they love me but for me, I only had Fred."

Draco nodded, not speaking.

"And Percy...Percy is here for me, but he gave up on this family for two years. As if he had could just quit us. He ran away and he was fine with it. He threw us aside. Now he's back and he wants to play big brother again. He's trying to crack jokes and he wants to be all wonderful, all loving and concerned, and he is, and I know he's trying, he's really trying, but he didn't know how much mum cried for him, how it tore dad apart, and he even _sent his Christmas jumper back_—"

"Well, from what I've seen of them, I'd send mine back, too," Draco said. "Come now, George, they're positively _hideous_ - Percy was probably just trying to spare the innocent eyes and stomachs of the community at large. You're being far too harsh on him, he's a regular hero. In fact, I might even venture so far as to call him a saint."

George laughed.

After a moment, Draco said, "I don't know where my friends are, anymore. Crabbe's dead. Who knows where Pansy is. Can't imagine she was too popular after wanting to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord. So all I've got is this crazy aunt, whom I've never met until a day ago, I've got stupid bloody Potter, and I've got you lot. And you know what great Malfoy fans you all are."

"I suppose we were never seduced by your slimy Slytherin charms," George agreed. "But perhaps I'll start the Weasley chapter of Draco Malfoy Fans United, now that I've been enlightened."

"Be the President of my new fan club, will you?" Draco smirked.

"Sure," said George. "Let's hold the first meeting right now. First order of business is we'll talk about what a great prat you are and how stupid your hair is. Next we'll honour your image by drawing moustaches on all your portraits – because you look so much better when you're so much more distinguished. Then we shall examine each of your physical features to look for the evidence of all the inbreeding."

"You're an awful President – no, you're the absolute worst Fan Club President in the history of the Draco Malfoy Fan Club. As the object of your devotions, I decree you to be ousted from your position at once."

"How could you, Draco Malfoy?" George said, stricken. "How will I go on? Life has lost all meaning! I'll kill myself here, right in front of you, I'm just unstable enough to do it, you know."

Draco laughed. "Oh, stuff it, you git."

"First my brother, now Draco Malfoy – I've never been so betrayed in my life! What do you would create a bigger splat, jumping off the Astronomy Tower or from a broom over at the Ministry of Magic...?"

Draco appeared to be in deep thought. "That would depend on how high you flew the broom, of course, and the current wind speed. But if we're talking crowds for shock value...well, assuming that Hogwarts is re-opened after it's rebuilt, then you get the chance to forever traumatise a lot of young people – especially impressionable first-years...versus over at the Ministry, where you get to traumatise all sorts of adults minding their daily business, and likely, a whole bunch of Ministry officials. So, it depends on what you're going for, really – emotional tragedy or political meaning."

"It bears some careful consideration," George admitted.

"Suicide nearly always does," said Draco.

* * *

"What do you suppose happens when we die?" Draco asked.

"There's something, isn't there? I mean, our portraits come alive. There are ghosts. So we have to go somewhere."

"Imagine not having that. Imagine thinking that there'll be nothing...How do Muggles deal?"

George shrugged and downed his Firewhiskey, one hand pushing his hair back. It was getting long. His fingers brushed the scarred flesh where his ear used to be.

"How does anybody deal?" he finally said.

* * *

"Wouldn't it be funny if you built a glass coffin so you could see inside, and they set it up so that you were roasted on a spit for all eternity?" George asked.

"I would want a glass coffin," said Draco. "I want one of those spells or potions or whatever it is that keeps your body from decomposing, so that you look the same for always."

"You'd better get some guards, then. You wouldn't want to have your body ravished by passionate necrophiles. I hear it happens _all_ the time."

"Why, George Weasley," smiled Draco, "how flattering. I never knew you thought me so bloody gorgeous."

"You always were a smarmy little git, weren't you?" said George. "I never said it's because you're so fit. They could be desperate and lonely necrophiles. That's why they're so passionate, you see."

"For your information, anybody with an iota of taste could see that I would be a beautiful corpse, an _exquisite_ corpse, a petrified paragon of corpse-ly beauty. Necrophiles would queue up around the block to see what I've got. They would surely violate my remains with fierce and tender passion."

George shook his head. "If that's your idea of resting in peace, Malfoy, then you've got some serious issues."

"Probably," Draco concurred, "but don't we all."

* * *

"What do you dream about?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Showing up to class in our underwear, how are we ever going to fill the lake with custard, that's impossible, somebody stop that giant chicken, this is madness..." His voice cracked. "...Green light flashing, over and over again..."

"Pretty much, yeah," Draco said. "Except for me there's a lot of blood and screaming."

They were both silent for a moment, letting the remnants of their nightmares draw out and curl around them.

"When does it stop hurting, do you think?" Draco asked.

"Does it?" George replied.

* * *

Harry didn't say anything to Malfoy that night; the blonde got into bed with him wordlessly. It wasn't right to have been there, to have watched and absorbed sharing of their grief, to be a voyeur to their intimacy. At the same time, he wished that he had known, that he could have helped. He wanted to reach out but he didn't know how, wanted to say, "I understand," but what did he understand, really? Ginny found him to be a comfort because she wanted him to comfort her; he couldn't say the same of Malfoy, except in his most vulnerable moments. He waited for the calmness of breath, the deepening of stillness.

Suddenly, he found himself looking into cutting grey eyes; Malfoy had rolled over so that he faced Harry. His blonde hair fell into his face, into his eyes. He would need to cut it soon. He pushed it back; obediently, the pale strands fell perfectly, unfairly, into place.

Harry made a sound and quickly moved back.

"Like spying on me, do you?" he said. Harry was too shocked to speak. Malfoy scrutinised him for several long moments; grey eyes on his face, his eyes, his open mouth.

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know," he said finally, and then rolled back over. He did not move for the rest of the night.

In the morning, as always, the bed was empty and Harry was alone.

* * *

On Saturday, the remaining Weasley children arrived for the funeral. Mrs. Weasley had started crying as soon as she met them at the door, Mr. Weasley clapped everyone gruffly on the back, pulling them into strong hugs. There were tears and kisses and embraces, everyone trying to pull together when it felt like everything was falling apart. Percy stuck by a despondent George, who stared dispassionately while everyone hugged him, said, "_George, George.._." or "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry._"

Malfoy hung back in a corner. For a moment Harry thought that he should go stand by him, but then Ginny clutched his waist tightly and he gripped her slender waist back. Malfoy would be all right, he would, Harry told himself.

Charlie had come on his own, brown eyes subdued, arms wrapped around himself – muscles tense with the strain of holding himself together.

"Where's your date?" George had asked. "What, don't dragons do well with funerals?"

"Surprisingly, no," Charlie told him.

Bill and Fleur arrived together, arms linked, both all in black. Fleur was as beautiful as ever, the black dress emphasising the almost translucent whiteness of her skin, making her seem to glow. Her blonde hair under her veil was a platinum cloud, as if someone had hung lace on the moon.

Malfoy had stared, stunned, after the couple had walked into the door. This was to be expected, of course, Fleur looking the way she did, and Malfoy, although a werewolf, was still a man.

It wasn't until later that Harry realised that he was staring at Bill.

It had to be his scars, Harry decided.

Bill Weasley had always been the most attractive of the Weasleys, before the attack. His face was so handsome, a sharp nose, strong jaw, stunning blue eyes. Now one half of his face was mutilated, deeply gouged, one eye permanently closed. Even when he smiled, it looked like a grimace. The flesh was ruined, peeled and ripped into ridges and ripples – horrific to look at.

Malfoy seemed unable to look away.

Surely Bill would notice. Malfoy wasn't even trying to hide it, that stupid git, anyone could see how his grey eyes followed Bill around the room. It was if he was...infatuated—no, not that. He was like a man possessed.

Or maybe he was amazed by the damage that a werewolf could do. Maybe it was guilt that stayed his gaze, that if it hadn't been for him, Bill would be just as handsome as ever.

Bill did notice, but instead of being surprised or visibly disturbed, he looked back, whenever Malfoy seemed to look away. By some amazing coincidence of timing, they very rarely made eye contact.

The two couldn't keep their eyes off of each other. Harry bristled; that was hugely inappropriate. It wasn't right, considering the circumstances.

Why would Bill spend so much time staring Malfoy? Was he fascinated? Was he resentful? Was he intrigued or was he disgusted? What was it with Bill and blondes?

It must be some sort of fetish, Harry decided.

All right, Harry supposed, everyone had a type. Hermione liked her men to be strong, Ron liked his women to be attractive and bossy. Harry congratulated himself on having diverse and excellent taste, since Ginny and Cho didn't look alike at all. He loved Ginny's vibrant red curls; had liked Cho's sleek, shiny black hair. When playing Quidditch, Cho was a calculated, accurate flier, constantly surveying the field; Ginny was fast and passionate, instinct and action. They even had totally different tastes in the types of friends that they surrounded themselves with.

Insofar as he could tell, Malfoy's type was Pansy Parkinson – pug-faced. She had become maybe passingly pretty over the years as she had grown into her features, but just barely. Harry certainly wouldn't have considered her gorgeous or anything of the sort.

So really, all things considered, he didn't need to worry about anything unseemly, he told himself.

Only that staring is very rude, and they both ought to know better than that. Honestly.

* * *

Draco had never wanted siblings; his parents had made sure of that. Mother constantly told him what a joy he was, what a treasure, her one and only. "One day, everything will be yours, and yours alone," Father had said, and Draco had thought, wasn't everything his already? He never learned to share.

The idea that anybody could have seven children was mind-boggling to him.

Charlie was just one would expect an older brother to be – he hushed and comforted, put a strong arm around shoulders and squeezed.

Fleur wept delicately into a lace handkerchief, saying over and over, " 'ow 'orrible, 'ow 'orrible." For all her great beauty, she really was a silly bint, Draco decided.

Bill was another story altogether, but that was something he didn't want to think about...the way his organs seemed to pull inside of him, how it hummed inside his chest, as if someone had replaced his heart with a hive full of bees...

Percy was with George and Ginny turned to Ron and leading them they had their Mum and Dad, with their open arms and hearts.

Looking at the household, he thought they were, in a way, all identical.

They were all sad about Fred; they were all worried for George.

That was the long and short of it.

He remembered one night when he was young, probably five or six or so, and Mother and Father were going out – Mother so enchanting in her gown, Father so handsome in his robes – the both of them golden and sparkling.

"Why can't I come with you?" he had asked, small voice plaintive.

"Oh, Draco," Mother said, "you're far too young for this."

"Now, Draco," Father said, "you must be a good boy."

"When you're older," they promised, "we'll take you everywhere with us."

They fulfilled their promises to him, as they often did. They took Draco to the opera, to their high-society teas, to galas and events where he let the perfumed ladies pinch his cheeks, where he learned to use his manners and to make nice with the other children. When he grew older, they took him to balls, to cotillions, to dinner parties with Ministry officials, to meetings at midnight with dark cloaks and hoods, to a frightening shriveled husk of a man who spoke in serpents' tongues.

But they did not take him with them this time; now they had gone to a place where he could not follow.

Draco had to excuse himself early after dinner, unable to stand the resentment building up inside, that Mother and Father had so heartlessly assumed that they would be there for him forever, and thus had not left anyone else behind.

* * *

"Fleur's really beautiful, isn't she?" Harry asked the dark room nonchalantly.

"What, is this a slumber party now?" came Malfoy's muffled voice. "Should we do each other's hair and have a pillow fight?"

"I'm just trying to make conversation!" Harry said to Malfoy's back, keeping his voice low. "I...I can't sleep."

That much was true. He had trouble sleeping these days, the thoughts and worries and memories overwhelming him at night, wrapping him up in their darkness as he lay awake in bed. He didn't want to face the silence tonight, Fred's funeral only a couple of days away – it was too accusing, he thought.

"Why, do you fancy her? Are you so lovesick that you're kept up nights by thoughts of her beautiful blonde hair? Scandalous, Potter. She's a married woman and you have a girlfriend."

Malfoy rolled over now to face him, propping up his head on one arm. Harry scooted back instinctively.

"Will you dream of her creamy skin, her blue eyes? Whisper her name longingly in your sleep? Do spill, Potter, inquiring minds need to know."

"That's not at all what I'm talking about!" Harry said, unable to articulate just why he couldn't sleep, just why stupid Malfoy was the only one he had to talk to about it.

Malfoy eyed him warily. "I hope you don't mistakenly substitute me for her in your lovestruck sleep. We may both be blonde and gorgeous, but I assure you, the resemblance stops there."

Harry rolled his eyes. "There's not enough money in your bank account to persuade me to touch you."

Malfoy looked reproving. "Potter, you ridiculously-overpriced whore."

He chose to ignore that last exchange. "But you _do_ think she's gorgeous."

Malfoy shrugged. "I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. I don't usually go for blondes."

Harry was surprised. Considering Malfoy's upbringing, he would have thought that he only intended to go for blondes, to ensure a future filled with pale, platinum-haired, Children of the Corn-type offspring.

Of course, there had been Pansy Parkinson, but Harry had never really considered her a permanent fixture in Malfoy's life, more of a school girlfriend than anything else.

"You don't...?"

"Well, it _is_ my look," he replied, matter-of-factly. "I don't like it when people copy me."

"You're too much, Malfoy," said Harry, shaking his head.

"I think it would be too matchy-matchy looking," he said, appearing to consider it with great distaste. "Besides, everyone knows that blondes are naturally exceedingly dumb – with the exception of Malfoys, of course."

"I wouldn't even make that distinction," Harry said, allowing himself a smile.

"Shove it, you," said Malfoy. "I'll kick you out of bed."

"It's my bed," Harry reminded him.

"So?" For someone lounging so casually, his expression was infinitely superior.

Malfoy's hair looked white in the dark, the dim light softening the sharpness of his features. If Harry let his vision slide out of focus he was just a blur of light and shadow, a voice, a human warmth. It was almost nice. Almost.

"What do you think of Bill?" Harry asked.

"In what way?" Malfoy's look turned gleeful, his teeth flashing white in a Cheshire Cat smile, floating in the dark. "Potter, you want to talk about _boys_? Oh, this is a slumber party, isn't it!"

Harry could feel his face burning. "Don't be stupid, Malfoy! I just mean..in general. God."

Malfoy laughed meanly. "Honestly, you're too easy. He's all right. I mean, as far as Weasleys go. I can't believe there are so many of them," Malfoy told him. "That woman is like...a baby factory."

"I thought you liked Mrs. Weasley!"

"I do," Malfoy said matter-of-factly. "Doesn't mean that she hasn't got the libido of a teenage rabbit living on carrots and aphrodisiacs."

Harry couldn't decide what he hated more right at that very moment, Malfoy or his brain. "You are very ill," he said, "and a menace to society."

Grey eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's with the interrogation, anyway? Spying on me not enough for you?" Perhaps it had been a bad choice of words.

"Look, I said I was sorry about that!"

"Right, _sorry_," Malfoy sneered. "Such a useful little word, isn't it?"

"I'm _trying_ to look out for you," Harry gritted out through his teeth.

Malfoy stared at him for a moment. His face seemed to drop some of its hostility, but it was difficult to read, with the light so dim. "I'm not your pet, just so you know," he finally said.

"No, you just live with me and need to be fed and taken care of and provided for..." Harry offered.

_And sleep in bed with me._

"I don't need you," said Malfoy, firmly, "I can take care of myself, thanks." He turned his back to Harry, indicating that the conversation was over.

After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder. "You'd be a horrible owner anyway. Forget to feed me and give me water and other such necessities." Then he settled in, presumably to sleep.

"I would not!" Harry protested, to Malfoy's silent back.

* * *

The funeral was on a Tuesday. George had decided it; it was the most depressing day of the week, Fred had always said.

"How are you feeling?" Draco asked him.

"Dead inside," George replied. "You?"

When he closed his eyes, he saw bodies and blood; corpses suspended in the air and then laid out in rows in the grass. He was filling up with dead things. Dead inside.

"About the same."

"Right," George said.

The church was filled with mourners; a good portion of them being people Draco recognised from school – all those bloody Gryffindors, of course, and a number of students from other houses. He noted that he was the only Slytherin.

Lee Jordan was saying something to George, glancing over in his direction. "Hey, shove off," George said, and Jordan frantically apologised.

They were all looking at him. Katie Bell, who had almost died because of him, Angelina Johnson, Seamus Finngan, titchy Dennis Creevey but not his brother Colin, all of them, their eyes on him, their voices whispering; he could feel their anguish, their tears, their anger.

For a brief flash he wanted to offer to take Fred's place in the coffin instead, and let the earth swallow him in her dark mouth of soil and forgetting.

"The best pair of Beaters I ever had," Draco overheard Oliver Wood say through his tears, as if they were burying both the twins and not just Fred. But perhaps he was somewhat right in that.

He was to be buried with highest honours from both the Order and the Ministry: death in battle. They had granted him an Order of Merlin.

It was an open-casket service. The church was filled with flowers, as if altar and the walls and the aisles had decided to burst into bloom; but these were just bouquets – in a matter of weeks the flowers would wilt and rot. Already they were beginning to die.

It was a lovely ceremony. Soothing music played, passages were read, dedications were made, everybody wept. Their tears rolled down their cheeks, into their handkerchiefs, into their collars, into their neighbour's clothes. Their tears probably dripped down onto the crimson carpet; maybe leaked into the cracks between the floorboards. This church soaked up centuries of tears, of sorrows and joys and benedictions, absolutions and damnations.

George stepped up to the pulpit, prepared to give the eulogy.

"My brother," he began. "My brother Fred was the singular most astounding, most incredible, most ingenious person that I could ever hope to know. He was also the handsomest person I have ever had the good luck to meet." He smiled wanly out at the crowd; no one laughed. "And my brother, smart and wonderful as he was, always said to me that he would love to attend his own funeral."

A slow murmur of dread rippled through the crowd, like a cold tide of black water.

"Today, I wish to respect his wishes."

Someone screamed as the body in the casket began to twitch and move.

"Introducing...my brother!" said George.

As if pulled up by invisible strings, Fred Weasley rose from his satin-lined coffin, limbs working stiffly; Draco almost expected them to make a creaking sound, like when one decided to create a golem of metal.

He had seen Inferi at the Manor, horrible mindless things; black holes for eyes, a gaping hole for the mouth, holes where their teeth had fallen out, holes, sometimes, where limbs used to be – full of holes. They were empty, empty, always yearning, always searching to be filled.

_I'm holey_, was the joke that George liked to make. _And I guess Fred will be, too, soon enough._

The eyes were still blue, yes, but cloudy, dead. His mouth moved mechanically, the voice that came out was flat and expressionless, the inflections all wrong.

He was a puppet, Draco thought. Nothing but a flesh puppet. He could smell the subtle beginnings of rot.

"_Wow, what a depressing, pathetic crowd, Georgie_," the dead Fred croaked. "_Somebody die or something?_" He grinned a grin that stretched a bit too wide. "_Forgive my voice, ladies and gentlemen, seems I've caught my death of cold, and I have a little coffin. Don't worry, though, I'm just a little stiff._"

The funeral arrangements exploded into fireworks; from somewhere, God Save the Queen played -Fred's body started to perform a jig, his motions jerky and unnatural. His hands and elbows and knees bent back on themselves in rhythm, his head twisted in ways heads were never meant to twist, while his face grinned all the while.

"_Thank you for coming to see my dance macabre - you've been a grave audience. I'll be here all week, folks - and all the weeks after that, in fact! Don't forget to tip your undertaker. Unfortunately I have to pass away; the trick to show biz, they say, is to always keep 'em wanting gore. Any more might be overkill!_"

The reanimated corpse took a bow, and just as it did - dead Fred's head popped off and rolled a little bit down the aisle. In true classic comic fashion, the body dropped to its hands and knees, groping blindly after it.

"_Oops, there I go again,_" said the head, "_always getting ahead of myself!_"

Mrs. Weasley hit the ground with a thud; she had fainted dead away.

George, on the other hand, looked happier than anyone had seen him in a long time.

* * *

"I don't understand why everybody's so upset." George said, afterwards. "Isn't that why they call it a _wake_?

"I mean, if you expected something different, then maybe they should call it a sleep."

* * *

"How could George do that?" Ginny asked. "That was _horrible_...That was the most horrible thing I've ever seen!" She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut tight as if she could squeeze the sight of it out of her head. "It was so wrong..."

"I don't know, Ginny," said Harry, tightening his arm around her. "I just don't know."

Together they sad on Ginny's bed – she had a blue-and-white striped bedspread, Quidditch posters on her walls, a stuffed animal of an owl sat on her dresser. The corner of a pink blanket peeked out from underneath the top comforter.

Ginny leaned against him, sniffling. Her eyes were runny and probably sore from crying. She was still beautiful, Harry thought.

"I've never ever seen anything so ghastly and awful," Ginny said.

Harry thought of the _Inferi_, their cold, grasping hands, their open, black eyes. He thought of decapitated bodies on a blood-soaked battlefield.

"_He originally wanted me to string him up like a puppet and then use his body to re-enact all the important moments of his life_," he had heard George say to Malfoy, "_but I thought that might be a little much._"

"_You've always had a bit of that cruel streak in you, haven't you?_" Malfoy had responded.

"I wonder where Malfoy went," Harry murmured absent-mindedly, while he stroked up and down Ginny's arm. And then he saw Ginny's expression and realised, belatedly, that it was probably a bad slip. "Not that it matters at all," he finished quickly.

Ginny was soft in his arms, fragrant – she smelled of white oleander and of her sorrow. He stroked her hair soothingly, the bright red curls silky to his touch. She was warm and alive. They both were. He wanted to hold on to her just then, and he pulled her to himself and squeezed her in his arms.

"I love you, Harry," Ginny said quietly. It was possibly the first time that she had said it to him. He pulled away a bit and looked at her, at her open, trusting face and her wet brown eyes, at her soft mouth and the rise and fall of her breathing chest, her beating heart, realising _yes, I do love her, I love this girl._

"Well?" she was smiling indulgently at him, but her smile tugged down at the corners, her eyes looked wavery.

"Me too," Harry told her, too quick to say it, "I mean, ah, I love you, too."

She giggled – it was a little too high-pitched, a little too relieved. "Idiot," she said affectionately, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

Ginny was probably the best off of all of them, Harry considered. She remained untouched, having never killed, having never bled. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that they were just teenagers, nothing more, nothing less, that they hadn't just been to a funeral, that they didn't have weeks of funerals stretched ahead of them.

"Will it always be so bad? All I can think is how cold it must be," she said, laughing a little bitterly. "It sounds barmy I know, but when I close my eyes I see that horrible smile and I think—I think, the ground must be so cold." She shivered and Harry wrapped his arms tight around her as if he could keep her warm against the idea of all that dark earth.

"That's not strange at all, Ginny," he told her.

She looked up at him, immensely grateful. "I love you," she whispered, kissing the line of his jaw. Her lips moved softly, lush and pink. He embraced her, savouring her warmth, her affection, their connection.

Ginny always kissed with expert enthusiasm, her mouth sweet and welcoming. There seemed to be a hard edge to her kisses now; he could taste the salt of her tears on her lips. She clung to him with her slender white arms, as if trying to twist the two of them irrevocably, inseparably together.

He didn't resist as she climbed onto his lap, welcomed the rub of her body against his, her soft breasts pressing into his chest, her skirts hiking up to show her smooth, pale thighs. He buried his hands deep into her hair, the red curls twining about his fingers, let the curves of her body incite his desire.

He let her go on until her nimble, delicate hands fluttered over his chest, undoing the snaps on his robes.

"Ginny, wait—" he began, breaking away, but she kissed him again, immediately, stealing his breath. She pushed his robes off his shoulders, the heavy cloth falling back onto the bed, her hands cupping his face as she opened her mouth to him.

She felt good, all heat and softness, so warm and compliant. Her hands moved to the front of his trousers, cupping the arousal that she found there.

He inhaled sharply at the electric jolt of pleasure, sliding his hand halfway down her back, feeling the clasp of her bra through her clothes.

"Make me forget, Harry," she whispered against his mouth. Her voice, at once so rough and sore, reminded him of how much she had been crying.

His entire body stilled; he suddenly felt nauseous. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back a little, firmly putting space between them. The loss of her was cold; he swallowed it down.

"Ginny, stop," he said. "We can't...we shouldn't..."

Her face was flushed, her mouth swollen from his kisses.

"Harry," she said, her breathing a little shallow, "I want to."

She looked radiant. And yes, that would be so easy, so good, to take her now, so eager, so willing; make love to her for the first time, to be sweet and wonderful. She leaned in for another kiss, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away so that her mouth met his cheek.

"I can't," Harry said.

The hurt in her eyes was condemning. "Don't you love me, Harry?" she asked.

"Of course I do," he responded automatically. He shook his head. "I do. I love you, Ginny."

"Then I don't see what's the big problem here," she huffed.

"Ginny, you're under a lot of stress..." Harry tried to explain and lacked the words. He imagined pushing into her, her sweet voice moaning his name while she all the while thought of moving corpses and dead brothers. He forced back the shudder, couldn't make himself look into her wide, sad eyes. "You're not being yourself."

"Oh?" she laughed now, high-pitched, a little manic. "Who else would I bloody be?" she demanded of him; she seemed to want to lean in again but she didn't. Maybe being rejected once was enough.

"You're hurt," he told her. "We both are. You're thinking about Fred. I...I can't be a substitute for you."

She looked at him, as if about to protest the accusation, as if she would let her temper flare up, indignant, beautifully enraged. She didn't, however, and instead pursed her lips tight and climbed off of him gracefully, smoothing her skirts, her robes.

They sat next to each other on the bed in silence. Harry inspected the pattern on the carpet – a faded maze of flowers and vines, entwined and tangled. Ginny rubbed her arm with one hand.

She turned to him. "Could you at least hold me?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I can do that." He used to admire her strength, but she really was fragile in her own ways.

He opened his arms to her and they settled back on the bed together –his back to the wall, her front to his, her head against his shoulder.

"You know I'd do anything for you," Harry told her solemnly. "I'm here for you."

"Mm," Ginny murmured, her closed, soft lips against his throat, and when she spoke next he felt the word more than heard it.

"Stay," she said.

* * *

"Where is your beautiful wife?" Draco asked smoothly, keeping his composure even as his whole body hummed...no, growled. That was more the word for it, yes.

It was an astoundingly bad idea: being alone with Bill Weasley.

The tug of recognition had started in his stomach as soon as Bill had first walked in through the door, his arm curved around his vision of a wife. From Draco's stomach it had pulled up into his chest, reaching, searching, clawing at his ribs, and then it travelled down, past the winding path of his intestines, settling long and flaring in his groin. It grew with every passing day, until he could feel Bill in every room, his scent, his presence, curdling his insides.

"She's downstairs," said Bill. "She's looking after my mum."

"Ah," said Draco, "a noble pastime. And what can I do for you, William?" He couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't stop looking at him, that one ruined side of his face, the scar tissue raised and tight.

_Brother._

Bill had asked to see him in private – a request that Draco was more or less forced to honour. It wasn't exactly as if he could say, no, sorry, I can't see you, even though you just came from your brother's funeral, I've already made plans this evening to be gnawing my own arm off.

"Mum said that you and George get on pretty well," Bill said. The door clicked shut behind him.

"We have an understanding of each other," Draco said. He wondered, idly, what the Weasleys would think if he jumped out of the window.

"Is that what you do, 'understand' people?" Bill asked, moving forward. Draco would have called it stalking, but he didn't know if Bill knew that that was what it was.

Fenrir Greyback had been in human form when he attacked Bill– so the second eldest Weasley was spared the curse, the fur and the fang - he would still be human when the moon rose, full and watching in the sky.

But there was beast in his blood now, the contamination darkening the veins, coursing through the tiny rivers inside his body. His scent was wild and familiar, like dark forests of pine, like a burst of blood in the air.

"Just like you and I share an 'understanding'?" Bill asked, circling close. Draco stood his ground. "I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

He felt drawn to him, every part of Draco's body was yearning towards him; as if he didn't move towards him then all his insides would crawl out of his skin and slither towards Bill.

"I'm afraid not, my dear Weasley, why don't you enlighten me?" the blonde tossed out flippantly.

But Bill, unlike his brothers, was not one to be teased. In one smooth movement he had Draco pinned against the wall, was pressed flush against him, his arousal evident, almost aggressive.

"_This_," he said, grinding his hardness between Draco's legs, "is what I'm on about."

His scent was so familiar, overwhelming, almost – like him, but not like him. Kin, but foreign, wild, yet human. Draco moaned and pressed back instinctively. He had never felt this way before; he hadn't know that he could feel an urge like this, wild and needy and animalistic. He felt nothing more than a creature, like it was beyond his control. It was terrible, it was horrible, no, no, it couldn't be like this, it was wrong-

_Yes yes this is right...brother._

There was nothing slow or sweet about this arousal, this needy, urgent thing that throbbed inside him. He felt trapped again, his own flesh a prison now, treacherous, disobedient body with its wilful, capricious desires.

Bill's one blue eye was dark with desire; he leaned in and licked Draco's face – wet and rough.

"Tastes just like I thought," Bill commented.

Draco pushed him off of him with a roar; in a minute they were wrestling on the floor. He wanted to rip into the muscle, feel the crunch of bone. He wanted to overpower, to dominate, he wanted to connect with this familiar stranger.

But Bill had size to his advantage; he used weight and gravity to pin the slighter blonde, the too-thin blonde.

Draco tasted blood where he had bit into his cheek.

"You know," Bill said, panting above him, arms holding him down, looking into his eyes. "You _know_."

His scars were beautiful, where the flesh was ripped; Draco wanted to feel them, to taste them, to dig his claws in and lovingly peel the flesh back, explore the layers of muscle and skin and blood.

_To rip to tear and rip and tear_

"...when the moon rises sometimes..." Bill was rushing through the words, his voice lunatic and soft, "...and I want to crawl out of my fucking skin..."

"Yes," Draco hissed.

Something was rising up inside him, and it had teeth; Bill's mouth was on his, open, wet, hot.

Draco moaned and opened his mouth to him, running his hands through the long red hair that spilled over them both. Bill's tongue wriggled inside his mouth as if trying to seek out the taste of blood, trying to open him, all raw and red inside.

"You're married..." Draco found himself saying when they broke apart for breath, even as he writhed enticingly beneath Bill, as the redhead ripped at his expensive robes. "Your wife is just downstairs..."

Bill kissed him roughly to silence him, as if trying to push the words back into his mouth, hands fisted in his robes. His tongue pulsed against Draco's, wet and insistent, licking the roof of his mouth, at his teeth.

Bill's kisses were not caresses but more like attacks. Lips and teeth and tongue with bruising force. Everything was rough, needy.

Draco had never been with someone like this before. Pansy had been wonderful and passionate, warm and amorous, but this was not so much passion as it was desperation. He had never felt like this before, the sheer necessity of it, the deep yearning, as if he would die. His heart was pumping, running, tripping, tumbling.

"I don't even know why I'm like this, why this is happening to me..." Bill was murmuring, "Oh _God_..."

"You _know_," Draco said, echoing Bill's own words back at him. "_Brother_." His veins burned.

Bill let out a low, keening moan and this his mouth was at Draco's throat, sucking and nipping. Draco groaned, thrust his hips up. Bill's teeth closed in a circle on the skin, biting hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a half-moon of teeth marks. Draco felt the shudders wrack his body, and he whined softly, high-pitched, placating. Bill released him, licking where the bruise would form.

Bill had large hands. Draco wanted to be engulfed by them, hoped that they left marks in his pale skin. Hands all over his chest, a mouth, Draco bit his lip and gave himself over, feeling Bill bite at him with his blunt, human teeth.

He was ravenous for him, it seemed, and Draco was going to be devoured, and he wanted it, _fuck_, he wanted it.

There was a primal need here that demanded to be fulfilled. He was spiralling deeper and deeper down, down, down.

Draco slid his tongue over the scars on Bill's face, lapping at wounds long healed, wondering what it would be like to rip them open again, feel the hot blood on his tongue.

He really was quite beautiful.

Bill hissed and pulled him closer. His hand slid down, cupped the bulge between his legs, and squeezed it, hard. Draco welcomed the pleasure-pain, throwing his head back, letting his sound of pleasure remain trapped in his throat, almost whimpering.

He shuddered beneath the touch, yearning, offering himself to be devoured, fearing and knowing that it would not be enough.

It wasn't enough, not when they ripped his trousers in an effort to get them off, wasn't enough even as Bill swallowed him down, mouth and saliva and _teeth_ but that was welcome too, that edge to the pleasure, and then he was fucking his mouth, thrusting, thrusting up, pale fingers tangling in fiery red hair as he gasped and came in explosive bursts, like death in front of his eyes.

Kissed him afterwards, tasting himself all salty and bitter on those lips, his scent and flavour on those brotherly lips, and then he let himself be overcome, on his knees, mouth open, open, open to give pleasure, to taste and engulf and consume, gagging, choking, hurting, he couldn't breathe, feeling it in his throat and burning all the way down to his chest and still it was not enough, and he feared he was full of holes, too, running on empty.

Thoughts of open graves and the moonlight spilling through him like ink and poison in his veins; the hunger grew.

* * *

Afterwards, Bill lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Draco watched him with half-lidded eyes, the thinness of the fag between his long fingers, the glowing cherry at the end. Mildly he thought how fun it might be to take that and stick it against skin, listen to the hiss of flesh.

"I can't see you again," Bill said. He sounded as if he meant to mean it.

Draco shrugged. "Then don't."

Bill's long red hair clung to his neck in damp tendrils. His freckled chest was chiselled and defined. That blue eye stared at him in astonishment.

He really was pitifully beautiful.

"We just messed around a bit, what did you expect for me to expect, a wedding ceremony? Honestly, Weasley." Draco sneered. "Besides - as I remember reminding you several times - you're already married. To a _beautiful woman_ that you _love_, no less. This was a one-time, one-off sort of thing – best if we both forget it ever happened and continue on with our lives, isn't it?"

"I don't want to forget about it," Bill said suddenly.

Draco felt himself turn slightly pink. "It doesn't make a difference to me," he said, keeping his voice even and careless. "Look, do what you want." He traced one of scratches down his chest, red and bleeding, then wiped at another down the length his arm. The insides of his thighs were raw and red with a crisscross of scratches.

"There's lust," Draco said, "and then there's everything else. Best not to let it get confused."

* * *

"Bill left without even saying goodbye," Harry said. "Even Fleur was confused at how abruptly he wanted to go. I don't suppose you would know anything about that?"

"People deal with grief very differently," Malfoy said, answering without answering anything. He was being unusually quiet, unusually jumpy.

"Are you sure there wasn't something else? Something more?" Harry asked.

"Something more?" Grey eyes slanted at him now; they seemed so dark, shadowed.

"You kept on _looking_ at him," Harry said, not knowing how else to describe it.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at people now? So what _am_ I allowed to do? Do I have to ask your permission for everything? Am I not allowed to talk to people? Am I not allowed to touch things? " Malfoy clasped his hands together, making his eyes big and wide. "Please Potter, may I go play with Georgie? I've been _ever_ so good."

Harry wanted to hit him.

"You were staring!" he almost shouted. Malfoy looked surprised, Harry felt the same. It was the pain, the grief, Malfoy being himself, being annoying - anger grew inside him. "It's...it's not appropriate at a time like this!"

Malfoy continued to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Well, I can't help it, can I? I mean...he really is hideously ugly, isn't he?"

Harry spluttered. "It's your fault that he's like that, you know!"

"Yes, I know," Malfoy said quietly.

"So? Don't you feel bad? The least bit sorry?" Harry continued on, doggedly. "Or are you just so completely egocentric that it doesn't matter?"

"Of course I feel guilty!" Malfoy snapped at him. "But what do you expect me to do about it?" He turned away from Harry with a huff. "If you must know..."

"What?" Harry wanted to grab those thin shoulders and force him to spin around, _look at me, goddammit, when I am talking to you_.

"If you must know, I did talk to him. For a bit."

"Oh," said Harry. "Is that where you were after the funeral?" His tone was accusatory and he didn't care.

"Maybe." Malfoy did look at him now, curious. "Where were _you_ after the funeral?"

He felt the flush of heat rising to his face, reddening at the memory of Ginny's mouth, her hands..."This isn't about me! What did you say to him?"

"I confessed."

"Really."

"Oh yes. It was a love confession. It didn't amount to much. He is married, after all."

"Malfoy..." said Harry, knowing that he was being put on again. The fleeting thought occurred to him that it had to be animal magnetism; first Fleur and now Malfoy, even with his mutilated face. "Could you please _try_ not to be a prat for one second? Just one."

"I could," Malfoy said, appearing to consider it, "but where's the fun in that?"

Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself that strangling Malfoy was Not the Thing to Do. "What did you talk about?" Harry prompted him.

Malfoy shrugged. "Oh, you know, common interests and the like – Quidditch, funerals, rare meat, being attacked by Fenrir Greyback, standard werewolf stuff. Very grr, rawr."

"You...Fenrir? I thought you said you didn't remember anything," Harry said, confused.

Malfoy gave him a sardonic smile. "Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"But that means..."

"It doesn't mean anything," Malfoy interrupted. "Why all the questioning? Are you jealous?"

His distraction tactic worked. "What? No!"

"You're a bit fixated on Bill, aren't you? Trying to protect your precious Weasleys, is it? Maybe it's not Fleur you fancy, but rather her strapping young man?"

Harry spluttered. "No! Don't be disgus-"

"Or is it," Malfoy smiled now, relentless, "that you have a crush on _me_?"

The outrage and indignation were overwhelming. "How could you even say that!"

"Aunt Andromeda said to think of you like family. So really, I'm doomed if you fall in love with me," Malfoy said with relish, "You'll be just like creepy Uncle Ophiuchus, and I'd rather that not happen. He had horrible sideburns."

"Okay, you can just stop that right now. It's gross."

Malfoy shook his head with great sympathy.

"I know it's difficult to resist my many charms, but you must make an honest effort of it, my dear _Harry_."

His name sounded wrong on Malfoy's lips – it was delivered lovingly, with intimacy – it made him squirm with discomfort, which was the exact reaction Malfoy was probably looking for.

"I have a girlfriend!" Harry cried.

"Ah, yes, of course," Malfoy smiled now, enigmatic – it was infuriating. "And Bill is married."

Harry asked him what he meant by that but Malfoy took to opening a book and humming loudly. He wouldn't say any more than that.


	4. So Don't Come 'Round Tonight

**Chapter Four: So Don't Come 'Round Tonight**

* * *

The house had become tense since the funeral.

Mrs. Weasley was up all hours, cooking, cleaning; in the kitchen the pots bubbled, the entire house smelling of baked goods and lemon scent. In the study the cauldrons bubbled, Hermione trying to brew a successful wolfsbane potion, Ron keeping a silent, sullen watch by her side. Over dinner, they tried to discuss anything but politics or war or funerals or werewolves, which left a very short list of conversational topics and a long list of troubled minds. Percy preoccupied himself with George but kept a newspaper open with quill in hand, looking for a job; Mr. Weasley worked late, sometimes not coming home until dinner was cold. George took to coming and going at odd hours, or locked in his room for the majority of the time; Malfoy took up pacing, no, stalking was the word for it, wearing down paths in the already worn carpet. Ginny, who was no good at cooking and found research boring, who could barely stand to be in the same room as George, played Exploding Snap with Harry and also chess, but sometimes gave him the silent treatment when he won.

For Harry it was war all over again; they hung their hopes on him like stones, he could tell, but he could not save anyone, this time.

How could he save them from themselves?

They had admonished George first, of course. Mr. Weasley had asked him, "How could you do such a thing? You nearly gave us heart attacks! And your poor mother, besides!"

Mrs. Weasley simply shook her head, her face drawn and tired. She had aged ten years overnight.

George did not answer them, rocking his chair back and forth, as if moving to a rhythm inside his head.

At least there was Ginny. There was always Ginny, who was all smiles for him, smiles and kisses and clinging arms and cloying body and sometimes even her sweet embrace felt a little too much, just enough so that when Malfoy said, "I need to get out," Harry said, "Yeah."

Malfoy had become irritable ever since the funeral, even snappier than usual. When he sat down to research he flipped through the texts without reading them, he tore up notes in frustration, alternating between scribbling furiously and then crumpling up the same bits of parchment.

He didn't even seem to have the patience for potions, it seemed, chopping up the herbs haphazardly, sometimes stirring so agitatedly that half of the simmering liquid ended up on the surrounding table, in drops and puddles.

After the second cauldron that he burned through Hermione declared that he was no help, and more likely to ruin the potion rather than add to it. She sent him to research but found him ripping up parchment into little piles and dog-earing the pages in the books - for no reason other than to be annoying - and banished him from that as well, so he took up pacing.

"I need to get out of here," he said, and Harry said, "Yeah...me too," so even though the sun had set several hours ago, out they went.

* * *

They wandered outside, the night air cool against their faces. Malfoy took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "Finally," he said. Stars dotted the dark sky, the moon blurred by clouds. He was looking speculatively at the woods surrounding the Burrow, all dark trees and shadows.

"Yeah," said Harry, thinking on the heaviness of things, how dark the sky got out here, sometimes.

"How far do you think it is to the edge of the woods...?" asked Malfoy. "Maybe 200, 300 metres?"

"Why," said Harry. "Are you thinking of running?"

Malfoy cast him a sidelong smile now, sly, his silver eyes seeming to reflect some sort of light, even out here where the only lights were in the sky. "Would you chase me if I did?"

There was a challenge in his voice that made something flicker inside of Harry, something that he hadn't felt since Malfoy quit Quidditch sixth year. "I'll do better than that," Harry told him, "I'll catch you."

They both looked at each other now, then back at the line of trees. Harry felt his muscles tense, ready to spring to action.

"Race you," Malfoy said.

"You're on," Harry replied and simultaneously the both of them took off, feet pounding against the grass.

They ran; neck to neck they ran, Harry overtaking Malfoy and then Malfoy overtaking Harry and then back again. The cold night air was sharp in Harry's lungs, his muscles singing with burn of activity after so long. He didn't care how sore they would be, how he would ache all over in the morning; all that mattered was this, the competition, the need to beat Malfoy. In this moment of sweat and adrenaline there was no room for ghosts or sad faces; for now, winning was the most important thing in the world.

Except he didn't - they skidded to a stop as they hit the forest edge; his lungs burned and his muscles screamed at him, the ones in his thighs seeming to twitch involuntarily, and Malfoy touched the tree barely a second before he did.

"I won," panted Malfoy, face glowing with wonder. The familiar look of triumph - the one that Harry had so despised in the past - was touched with happiness. Harry tried to resent him and didn't.

"That's...because...you cheated," Harry let himself huff, even though neither of them would have been able to say how he had cheated, exactly.

"Of course," Malfoy allowed generously, smiling wide now. "If you can't win, why bother to play at all?"

"There's always the enjoyment of the game," Harry suggested, wiping at the sweat on his brow.

"That's _loser talk_," said Malfoy emphatically, "and you know it."

"Yeah," Harry laughed and agreed.

Malfoy was looking at the woods again, eyes darting over the criss-crossed branches that hung over them now, the shadows, the depth of the trees. "How about a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek?"

"All right," said Harry. This could be fun. "You go hide, I'll find you."

"Not fair," protested Malfoy. "You've got that Tracing Charm on me. You hide, I'll find you."

"Fine," said Harry. He pulled out his Invisibility Cloak from where he had tucked it away, folded up in his coat, and he put it on, effectively disappearing before Malfoy's eyes.

"Hey!" said Malfoy. "Unfair advantage!"

But Harry had already run into the forest, darting between the trees, Malfoy's accusing cry of "Cheater!" fading behind.

* * *

Draco had never much cared for the outdoors (all that _dirt_ and _mud_ and _bugs_) other than the grounds of the Manor, with manicured lawns and hedges trimmed to resemble creatures and Father's lovely white peacocks. He and his mother used to stroll together there, walking and talking, and sometimes they had garden parties, invitation-only, with watercress sandwiches and tea.

Now when he thought of it, the first thought wasn't of the sunlight in his mother's hair, but rather of the smell of the grass, the whisper in the trees, the open, endless sky. He couldn't stand being inside these days. He was vaguely appalled at how rolling around in mud seemed to be a good idea.

The walls were closing in on him, getting closer every day. His breath stopped in his chest when he thought of it. He couldn't concentrate, his body burned with the need to be otherwise occupied.

It had gotten worse since Bill, that constant dull buzz inside of him, his veins full of bees. He found himself waking up now with quiet moans and sweat slicking his skin, sticking his nightclothes to him. Potter slept through it, dead to the world. The burn was all over, worse and worse, like stings coming up underneath his skin.

He tried not to think about it, but every now and again there was the idea of flesh, the memory of biting and the salt of sweat, the phantom feel of hands upon his skin, so that in the shower he shamefully brought himself to blind, unsatisfactory completion.

It wasn't enough.

The wind felt good on his skin, cold and refreshing. He belonged out here, in this dark night with her open embrace. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins from racing side by side with his long-time rival, feeling the wind in his face, the sweat beading on his neck, the breathless victory.

This was a different sort of game now. His eyes tracked a path of disturbed leaves, crumpled and overturned, snapped twigs. Potter had run through here.

He stooped low to the ground, rubbed the dirt between his fingers, smelled it. The scent was familiar and strong, and it would only get stronger from here.

Here the undergrowth was disturbed, carelessly trampled through. Here a flower was crushed. Really, this was almost too easy. The forest seemed eager, welcoming, whispering to him its secrets.

He followed the scent, getting closer and closer – he could practically hear the heartbeat now, smell the tang of fear – until, all of a sudden, it disappeared.

There had been broken branches and earth that held the imprints of feet crashing through, damaged underbrush. Now, it stopped suddenly, the scent gone.

A false trail – his prey was smart. He licked his lips; an interesting hunt would make the ultimate capture all the sweeter.

He loped through the forest, sniffing the air: pine, wet leaves, dirt; an owl flew overhead, flapping its big brown wings; a deer had been through here, marking a tree; a rabbit scampered behind him, skittering on dry leaves.

He was hunting more intriguing prey.

He picked up on the trail again, the scent strong and fresh, although this time, the physical signs of his presence couldn't be found. His prey was eluding him, but he could not hide forever.

He imagined the boy hiding somewhere, huddled, shivering – vulnerable, waiting to be caught.

He ran through the trees, following easily – here a branch had been brushed against, here the prey had touched the tree bark. The scent became stronger and stronger, he was practically on top of it – and then it seemed to fade and disappear.

Another false trail? No, not this time.

He slowed down, retraced his path. And here in this grove of trees, where the scent was strongest, he stopped and listened, ignoring even the sound of his own breathing. The thrill bubbled up in him; he was close, he was so close.

The brush rustled. He could sense the body heat. The rapid heartbeat. His own heart was pounding, his mouth filled with saliva; he could almost taste the soft give of flesh, the way his prey would keen in pain and fear...

"Found you," whispered the hunter, reaching down and touching cloth; gathering up a handful of the material, he yanked it off.

For a moment the would-be victim looked up at him, blinking green eyes that were luminous and catlike.

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess you did," he said. His messy black hair tumbled into his eyes, his face flush with excitement. "What do you want to do with me now?"

There was anything that he could have said or done in this situation, the woods so deep and dark around them.

Draco threw the Invisibility Cloak back at Potter.

"Make you take us home, you pillock. It's freezing out, or haven't you noticed?"

"Oh yeah, it is pretty cold, isn't it," Potter noted, getting to his feet.

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze and astound," Draco drawled. "If I catch my death of cold, I'm coming back to haunt you." He sighed and shook his head, plucking a burr from where it gotten stuck to Potter's hair. "You're absolutely hopeless." He thought of how easy it would have been to overpower his prey, fill his mouth with the taste of blood...

Potter shrugged and smiled his stupid smile. "Took you a while to find me, didn't it? Come on, I'm good, admit it."

Draco smiled back, all teeth. "If you were _really_ good, then you would have never let me catch you in the first place."

* * *

"Hey," Harry said the next night. "Ron says there's an abandoned cabin somewhere in the middle of those woods."

"So?" Malfoy asked.

"So I think we should find it," Harry said. "I'll race you."

Malfoy was pacing again, giving death glares to anyone who dared to approach him. The glare that he reserved for Harry was particularly death-filled.

"I think I'll pass on your Gryffindor idea of 'a good time,' Potter," Malfoy said. "I have better things to do with my time than frolicking through the forest with you."

"Like what," Harry challenged, "trying to remove the pattern from the carpet using just your feet?"

Malfoy glared at him, extra deathly, without even making an effort at a comeback. Then he snarled and turned away, stalking towards the stairs up to his room.

"You're changing," Harry remarked, following closely behind.

"And you know me so well," he snapped in response. He mounted the stairs with a vengeance, as if each step had done him a great injustice, and now had to be punished.

"I do," said Harry, not missing a beat. "I know that you're usually a _tad_ less of a twat than this."

"Just leave me alone, all right?"

"Why?" asked Harry. "I thought we had fun last night. Come on, I'll even let you win again."

Malfoy didn't rise to the bait. "What part of 'leave me alone' don't you understand?" He entered the room, reaching for the door. "Now be a good boy and go play with yourself, if you're so hard up for company," he sneered.

"Maybe I will!" Harry shouted at the closed door. "Who needs a prat like you, anyway!"

Harry stalked down to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of tea and then found he was in no mood for it. "Stupid Malfoy," he muttered.

"Fighting again?" asked Ginny. "Let's put crickets in his bed. That'll teach him some manners."

Harry forced a little laugh. "Or worms. Extra-slimy."

"Honestly, who does he think he is?" huffed Ginny. "Think he'd be less of a snot after all this time, but he's amazingly stubborn. As if you even wanted to spend time him."

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

"How about a game of chess with me instead?"

"Eh...I don't really feel like chess, Ginny," Harry told her. He thought of suggesting a walk outside but he knew two things for sure: one that it wouldn't be the same, and two that she might misinterpret the invitation. Ever since she had wanted to fool around with him, directly after her brother's funeral, he had been a bit uneasy about touching her. It felt too much like taking advantage.

"We could make it interesting," Ginny suggested, lowering her lashes.

"Um, I promised Hermione that..."

Hermione entered the room, just in time. "Harry, if you have so much free time on your hands, why don't you help me and do something productive for once?"

"Oh, right, that thing," Harry said, "that I promised you that I'd do. Sorry, Ginny."

"Right," said Hermione, "I could use your help with some things about Malfoy."

"Isn't it always about Malfoy?" Ginny asked rhetorically, rolling her eyes.

* * *

"He told me that something was wrong with him," Hermione nodded.

"What? What did he tell you? What did he say?" Harry asked urgently.

"He said, 'Granger, there's something wrong with me,'" she said.

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, at least he can admit that."

It was Hermione who couldn't admit any weakness. Her hair was a mess, she looked smudged around her eyes.

You need to get some sleep, Harry had urged. We're not fighting anymore.

No, we're not, she had murmured back, not seeming to hear what he actually said.

"Something wrong with him?" Ron asked, "This is Malfoy we're talking about, what _isn't_ wrong with him?"

"He's changing, Ron, anybody can see that," Hermione said. "And if you're going to pretend to read you could at least hold your book right side up."

"I was trying the Luna method of reading," Ron covered up smoothly, holding the book half-closed. "There might be secret messages embedded in the text that we wouldn't see otherwise."

His Quidditch magazine fell out and onto the floor.

Hermione shook her head indulgently and turned back to Harry. "Malfoy's awfully jumpy now, isn't he? And he can't seem to sit still for any prolonged period of time. Why, just the other day he only got through twenty chapters before he quit."

"Um. Hermione, are you sure that's not normal?" Harry asked.

She was clearly disappointed. "Not everybody is as bibliophobic as the two of you. He used to be able to go through at least four, five hundred pages before he started complaining."

"Yeah, because he's a freak," Ron interjected helpfully. Hermione glared at him. "Not that you're a fre—er, and even if you were, you're a beautiful frea—um, you're brilliant and I love you?"

Hermione seemed to be trying to decide between whether to be miffed or appeased. Ron had it easy these days; they were still in the stage where she was amazed anytime that he said those three words. It was the most effective weapon he could have possibly asked for.

"Malfoy told me that he'd been attacked by Fenrir Greyback," Harry told her.

"Oh," said Hermione, "so is that why he and Bill were so preoccupied with each other?"

"You noticed, too?" Harry asked quickly.

"Well, they did look at each other an awful lot," Hermione offered. Harry forced himself not to pump his fist in triumph. _Take that, Malfoy! I knew I was right._

Ron was defensive. "Of course they were looking at each other! I bet Bill could barely keep from killing that slimy bastard, since it's his fault that he's so messed up now."

"It didn't look like that to me, Ron," Hermione said, looking thoughtful. "It was almost as if...I wonder..."

"Wonder what?" Harry prompted.

"Well, it looked almost as if they recognised something in each other. It would make sense if there were a bond, due to their shared 'Sire,' so to speak."

"What kind of bond?" asked Harry.

"Well, it's been noted, in some cases of vampires, that Sire and Childe share a bond, and likewise, so do Childer produced by the same Sire. Blood calls to blood. Not to say that lycanthropy is the same as vampirism, but they're both blood diseases, aren't they? They both transfer from bodily fluids and bite wounds, and the like, they both endow those afflicted with self-healing abilities. So I wonder if the bond is true of werewolves, or if there's something similar." She shrugged. "This is all conjecture, of course."

"I...see..." Harry said slowly. "And this bond, what does it do? Or what does it make them do?"

Hermione furrowed her brow. "It's difficult to say, really. I mean, maybe they just recognise each other as brothers, or kin, or something, or maybe they would be attracted to each other..."

"_Attracted?_" echoed Harry. "You don't mean..."

"Oh, no, of course, nothing like that," Hermione looked distinctly bothered by the idea. She flushed. "Although, we have to remember that that _is_ an animalistic instinct..."

"Hey! That's my brother you're talking about!" Ron said. "If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, which I hope you're not – I would suggest that you don't even suggest that you're suggesting it."

"No one's suggesting anything of the sort," Hermione reassured him. "Are we, Harry?"

"Of course not..." Harry said, thinking of the way Bill's eyes had seemed to roam all over Malfoy, his eyes, his face, his body. "They were together after the funeral."

Hermione blinked. "Well, that makes sense, doesn't it? After that stunt George pulled..." She shook her head. "And we all miss Fred..." she sighed. "Bill must have been quite distraught; he was probably just looking for an outlet for his emotions."

"Yeah," said Ron, "Malfoy's lucky my brother didn't pound him into the ground...Harry, what are you doing?"

Harry put down the piece of parchment that he was shredding to bits. "Sorry."

"At any rate," Hermione continued, "we really ought to keep an eye on him."

"Oh, don't worry," said Ron. "We all are. Always. Aren't we, Harry?"

"Of course," Harry replied.

* * *

The moon was calling. Her voice slid into his dreams at night, liquid and seductive.

He hadn't had the nightmares since he had taken up sleeping next to Potter, but his dreams were dark now, dark and sweet. He dreamt of forests and power, of jaws and fangs, the hot gush of delicious red, the soft slide of meat down his throat.

His body knew the taste of pleasure, it yearned to take and possess; it knew the thrill of sex and the power there.

And stupid Potter lay next to him in the dark, unknowing, not moving for fear of their bodies touching.

Stupid Potter didn't think he noticed.

_I'm just trying to look out for you._

Did he think that it wasn't obvious, the way his body curled protectively around him in the night, the way he watched him as he slept, chasing the nightmares away?

He really was pathetic.

He wanted to punish him for being so kind, so sympathetic, for being so stupidly merciful. Wanted to murder him just to teach him a lesson about taking in wild animals. He left himself open and vulnerable, honest and trusting, too good for his own good. It was just as Draco had always known; Potter's idiotic heroism would be his downfall.

* * *

Malfoy had attacked Hermione.

Except, not really.

"Hermione, are you okay? I'm so sorry," Harry said. "I'll strangle him or beat him or something for you, if you'd like."

"I'll hold him down," Ron said darkly.

Hermione shook her head. "It's quite all right, Harry, Ron," she said, "I'm not even bruised, see?"

He had been helping her with the potion, again, having been given another chance, when Hermione had asked him whether he remembered to stir twelve times before adding the valerian root. Apparently he had lost his temper and hit her aside, knocking her back into a table.

"He seemed really horrified by it," Hermione continued. "Even if he ran away afterwards."

"He would, that coward!" Ron cried. "I knew I should have known better than to leave you alone with him!"

"It really is all right, Ron," Hermione assured him, "There was no way he could have actually hurt me. I always have my wand on me, just in case. Besides, Draco would never hurt me intentionally."

"_Draco?_" Both Ron and Harry questioned.

"Since when were you two so close?" Ron demanded.

"Oh, come on now, you know he and I have been getting on," Hermione said.

Apparently not, judging by Ron's expression. This was news to Harry, as well.

"It's nice to have someone around who appreciates an intriguing thesis backed with extensive research," said Hermione.

Freaks. They were freaks, the both of them.

"And even you enjoy playing him in chess, Ron," Hermione pointed out. Harry looked at Ron, incredulous.

"Only because there's no one else to play with, and Hermione's always got her books and potions," Ron said. "It was either that or stare at the wall. Besides, not like he's been up to playing anything lately." He sounded sullen. Harry was feeling the same. When did _Malfoy_ get to spend _quality time_ with Hermione and Ron? Probably when he was away, with Ginny...

"If you're so bored, I have plenty I can keep you busy with, Ronald." Ron groaned and rolled his eyes; Harry knew that Hermione's idea of the best way to keep Ron busy was not the exactly same way that Ron wanted Hermione to keep him busy. "At any rate," Hermione said, "He's especially vulnerable and emotional now more than ever, and he could use all the support that he can get. I've been expecting an outburst of violence like that for a while, I'm only surprised he managed to hold out as long as he did."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"You see," she said. "The moon entered its gibbous phase two days ago." She presented the information as if it would explain everything.

They looked at her blankly.

Hermione sighed and reached for a scrap of parchment. "The moon goes through phases, right? Crescent, half, gibbous." She drew an oblong circle with her quill, like a rounded egg. "As the moon gets rounder – the waxing gibbous phase – it approaches the full moon." She drew a large, round circle. "I imagine, as we get closer and closer to the full moon, Draco's animalistic instincts and tendencies will become more and more intense, leading up to his transformation."

"Animalistic tendencies," Harry repeated.

"Right," said Hermione. "Such as the behaviours we've been observing. Extreme agitation, anger, aggression, restlessness, violence..."

"But Remus wasn't like that," Harry noted with a frown.

"Yes," said Hermione, "but Remus was turned when he was just a child. He had years of experience in 'taming the beast,' shall we call it." She furrowed her brow worriedly. "This will be Malfoy's first transformation, so we should expect the worst."

"I always expect the worst whenever Malfoy is concerned," Ron said.

* * *

Harry had been distant since the funeral, it seemed. He would sometimes get a pensive expression on his face, but he never really answered whenever Ginny offered a knut for his thoughts.

They were all feeling the strain. She felt as if her family were falling apart around her, and there was nothing that she could do. When she dreamt she saw her entire family in coffins, all of them rising slowly back up, with their horrible, dead smiles.

She had always been Daddy's little girl but he filled up his days with work, sometimes stopping to kiss her on her forehead on his way out the door, if she happened to wake up early enough to catch him. There was more grey in her mother's hair than she had ever seen before. When she was little, when Daddy was away and Mum was busy taking care of household chores and cooking, she always had her older brothers to play with.

But Charlie had left again, a day or two after the funeral; he was needed, badly, for the post-war Reconstruction. Bill had looked so troubled when he had left with Fleur, and Ginny was reminded of how much she had once despised her, this beautiful woman who had stolen her brother away for her own. The Ministry was a mess, apparently, and Percy was struggling with what he called "bureaucratic bollocks," red tape and paperwork, in order to get his position back, or any position, really. When he wasn't preoccupied with the all-consuming issue of "What Am I Doing With My Life," he was preoccupied with his other all-consuming issue, George. She knew that Percy didn't even see Penelope anymore.

And then there was George, George whom she used to idolise; she had so wanted to be just like them, the twins, to be funny and well-liked and good at Quidditch. They were always so popular, so wonderful, so good for a laugh. George was still funny, on his own, but in a way that scared her, now. She could never tell what he was thinking, not anymore. He didn't speak to her much these days, and she never sought him out to talk; she never knew what to say.

Ron loved her, she knew, was always eager to leap to her defence, angry and protective. He wanted to spend his time with Hermione, who really was looking the worse for wear these days, and she couldn't blame him. But spending time with the two of them made her feel like the third wheel more often than not, unnecessary.

Even worse, Harry, her one constant, could not help her.

He was there for her, of course, the way that he said he'd be, but when she told him her worries he only grew quiet, as if berating himself for being unable to fix them. He tightened his arms around her, as always, but his face tightened, too, and when he wasn't with her, he was with Malfoy.

His adopted pet. Malfoy had been growing nastier this past week, his words callous and hateful, his behaviour aggressive. His pacing and restlessness upset her; it made her want to run away from him, made her feel as if she were the one that was caged. It had gotten to the point where she could barely stand to be in the same room as he was.

But Harry worried about him, as was his nature. For some reason, Harry couldn't just brush him off as the bastard that he was, even as Malfoy tried to actively push him away.

Harry was hopeless.

Ginny worried about him. Malfoy was the unhealthiest thing in Harry's life, and the sooner he was removed from it, the better.

* * *

Something was different when Malfoy slipped into Harry's room that night.

Harry expected his presence, could almost sense it in a way. So when he heard the door open softly, he just moved over in bed, closer to the wall.

"Evening, Potter," he heard Malfoy say. There was a strange timbre in his voice, something Harry had never heard before.

"Hey," said Harry. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed on.

"I'm really not up to sleeping tonight..." Malfoy said.

"Malfoy...?" Harry rolled over and suddenly found himself pinned under the blonde's body.

"Harry," Malfoy smiled back; his teeth gleamed in the dark. There was something different about him, wrong. His canines seemed especially sharp.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry asked. He struggled against the hands that pressed his wrists into the mattress, but it seemed that Malfoy had an iron grip.

"Shhh..." Malfoy leaned over him now, using both arms and elbows to hold Harry's arms down. He placed a long, elegant finger on Harry's lips. Harry resisted the urge to bite it. "Don't want to wake up the entire house, now do we?"

Harry shut his mouth. Malfoy smiled, taking his finger and tracing the edge of Harry's bottom lip. It was a disturbing, tickling sensation.

He wore the same thing that he usually wore to bed, but there was a sensuous quality to it now. His nipples were peaked, clearly visible through his tight, white shirt. Harry swallowed; he never realised how indecent that ensemble was.

"Okay," Harry laughed nervously, "you got me. You win this round. Now let me go."

"Mm, I do have you, don't I?" He lowered his voice and smiled, predatory. "What should I do with what I've caught?"

Harry noticed, now, how his pupils were dilated, a thin silver rim around large pools of black.

He felt a wash of cold panic.

"Maybe you could let him go," Harry suggested, struggling to keep his voice even and calm.

"I could..." the blonde said, cocking his head and looking at Harry curiously, "But I don't think I particularly want to."

"Then what do you want?" Harry asked, half-afraid of the answer. His wand was just on the dresser. If he could keep Malfoy distracted, maybe, at the right moment...

"Maybe I could eat him," Malfoy-who-was-not-Malfoy said, speculatively. Harry swallowed the scream that rose in his throat, his brain working furiously to fill his mind with images of carnage. He knew that Fenrir Greyback was a cannibal, that he ate people even when he wasn't in wolf form, and maybe this was one of the traits that the Sire had passed on to his 'offspring.'

"Your little heart's pit-pattering away...what are you so afraid of?" He bent in and licked a wet, hot trail up a strip of Harry's throat. Harry shuddered at the upsetting sensation. "You're not afraid of me are you? Come now, there's nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you...yet."

They were going to walk in the next morning and find him dead and eaten, a grisly scene, nothing but a bunch of bloody bones and pulp in bed, and Ron would say I told you so and Ginny would be even further traumatised and Malfoy would be sent to Azkaban and executed.

Malfoy nuzzled his carotid artery. Harry's breath hitched.

"Malfoy...Malfoy! Draco! You...you don't want to do this," Harry tried to reason.

"Oh, but I do," he whispered into Harry's ear. "But you don't want me to, do you?"

"No, I don't," Harry agreed.

"Harry, I haven't been very good to you, have I?" Malfoy asked, his tone almost mournful. "I've been so awfully _nasty_ and _mean_."

This was a shift in tactic. Harry blinked, unsure where Malfoy was going to take this, but anything was good as long as it kept the werewolf distracted from his ultimate goal.

"You haven't been exactly appreciative," Harry told him.

"And I'm so nice to everybody else, but I neglect you."

_Yes._

"I realise that I owe you quite a bit. My life, my everything. I was ever so nice for Bill. Do you want to know how I was nice to Bill?"

_Yes._

"You and Bill...?"

"He said I was so good, Harry, even better than his wife; he wanted me so much..." Malfoy whispered. His lips brushed the line of Harry's jaw. There was a funny feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. Harry tried to feel infuriated at the idea of Malfoy and Bill but the burn that was forming in him didn't feel quite right.

"You're my most important person, Harry, you're the only person I have. Don't you want me to be good for you?"

Harry was afraid to ask what he meant by that. "Malfoy..." he tried, "I don't think you really want to do anything. Let me go."

His grin was feral. "Are you worried about the Weaslette? Don't worry...I won't tell. I'm good at that."

The conversation was heading in a different, but still very dangerous, direction that Harry didn't care to think about. "Malfoy, stop. Let me go."

"I bet you're hard up for it," the blonde laughed to himself softly – a cruel sound. "In more ways than one. Girlfriend isn't putting out, is she? I know you don't touch yourself, lying next to me in bed...How long has it been, Harry?"

"Malfoy," Harry's voice was strained, "I don't want this and you don't want to do this." He gulped. There was a definite hardness pressing into his stomach.

"I'll make it good. I'll make you feel really good...I'll make it hurt." His hand slid down Harry's chest, pinched a nipple sharply.

"_Draco Malfoy_!" Harry finally shouted, not caring who heard.

It was like seeing a person wake up from a trance, or come out from under a spell. All of a sudden, Malfoy looked around, as if finally taking into his surroundings, as if he had been sleepwalking all night and had just woken up someplace foreign and unfamiliar.

He looked down at Harry in shock and let out a little scream.

"Oh, God...Potter!" he leapt off of Harry so quickly that he ended up on the floor. "What did I just...What were you...Did I...Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

Malfoy gave him a look that reminded him, again, of a wild animal, and then he scrambled to his feet and fled.

Harry lay back in bed, feeling very disturbed. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

* * *

Ginny had been hovering in that dreamlike state between consciousness and sleep when she swore she heard Harry's voice shouting Malfoy's name. This was followed, shortly after, by a scream that sounded like Malfoy's voice.

That was enough reason to get out of bed.

Pulling on her robe, slipping her feet into her slippers, she left her room quietly and made her way down the hall towards where Harry slept.

She was just in time to literally run into a clearly distraught Malfoy, who apparently didn't see her approaching.

"Hey!" she said. "Watch it!"

"Oh, Weaslette, it's you," said Malfoy, instead of insulting her as she would have expected. It was late, maybe he was off his game. She noticed that he was coming from the direction of Harry's room.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and made to brush past her. She stopped him.

"What were you doing over there?" she asked, suspiciously. "Your room's down the other end of the hall."

"Oh," he said. "Nothing." His face looked flushed. Harry's door was open, just a bit. "I'll just be returning to it, if you don't mind..."

She blocked his exit, one more time. "You were in Harry's room," she accused. "I heard his voice earlier."

"Yes," Malfoy said, looking increasingly annoyed. "May I go now?" He tried to sidestep her. Clearly, there was something that he didn't want to tell her.

She stepped in front of him. "What were you doing in his room?"

His eyes narrowed at her and a look of pure malice passed over his sharp features. There was something so alien and dark about this look, so unlike the pettiness that she was familiar with, that she shivered involuntarily. Then it was gone and he smiled at her. It was a cold, unamused expression.

"If you must know," he said lightly, "I was sleeping with him."

"_You were sleeping with him?_" Try as she might, she couldn't help the slightly hysterical pitch that entered her voice.

He smirked at her reaction, some of the familiarity returning to his face. "I was sleeping, yes," he drawled. "And he was there, too."

"What? What are you talking about? How long has this been going on? What were you doing in bed with him?" Ginny interrogated, unable to stop the flow of questions.

"Who says we were in bed together?" Malfoy asked, all innocence.

"But...But you just said—" Ginny stammered.

"He gets nightmares, all right? He's very embarrassed about it, the poor little crumpet. He needs someone there to wake him up if they get too bad." He adopted a melodramatic, martyred tone. "And I, noble soul that I am, have selflessly sacrificed my beauty sleep and devoted my nights to keep vigilance over our darling ickle Harry."

"Nightmares? Why didn't he tell me any of this?" Ginny asked, bewildered. "I could have helped him."

Malfoy looked at her, almost sympathetically. "He can't have you know, you poor little tidbit. He wants to protect you, of course. His pure, beautiful sweetheart couldn't possibly understand the horrors that plague him."

"I would understand!" Ginny shot back defiantly. How dare scum like Malfoy even suggest that she was inadequate comfort for her own boyfriend?

"Oh really, you would, would you?" He leaned in, his face close to hers.

Ginny wanted to take a step back, instinctively, but found that she couldn't move at all, felt like a small bird looking into the serpent's eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to close your eyes and see death, only death? To see the faces of loved ones that you've failed, that you should have saved and couldn't? Or to imagine that you're feeling the pain of _Cruciatus_ over and over again, only it's worse, because you're not, yet it doesn't end, and when you wake up, you'll be fine, but those people you love? They're still dead."

His voice was soft, seductive, his silver eyes piercing. "And do you know what it's like, to look at all those bodies and graves, and to think, 'it's all my fault, _it should be me instead_'?"

He smiled slowly,as if staring into the depths of her. "Do you know how _good_ it feels to _kill_? The sort of power that courses through you when someone breathes their last breath at your hands?"

Ginny held her breath, very still. She felt as if she were going to cry and she would not, could not, allow it.

"I didn't think so," Malfoy sneered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed." He sidestepped her smoothly and left her behind, frozen in place and trembling.

Ginny was sweating. She wanted to cry but this time the tears failed her entirely, they would not come out. She hadn't thought it was possible to hate Draco Malfoy any more than she already did.

How silly of me, she thought faintly, as she realised that she had never even known true hatred until now.

* * *

In the morning, the first person Harry saw was Hermione, yawning, in the study, peering into a slowly simmering cauldron. She was in her pyjamas, her hair messily tied into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder.

"I'm really happy I managed to get up on time," she seemed to be murmuring to herself. "If the cow's bezoar isn't added within the next five minutes, I would have had to start the potion all over from stage three. I wouldn't have slept at all if Ron hadn't threatened to set fire to my books. Good morning, Harry."

"Morning," Harry said, feeling tired himself. His night had been as sleepless as he predicted. He watched as Hermione stirred in the potion ingredients. He noted that one of the books seemed to have a singed binding.

"You're up early," she noted with a yawn.

"Could I...speak to you in private?" he asked her. He looked around. The house was quiet except for the bubbling, liquid sounds of the cauldrons.

"Nobody else is up yet, so I think we're safe," she told him. "What's on your mind?"

"I really think Malfoy's lost it," Harry blurted out.

Hermione looked at him with interest, reaching for her quill and parchment now. "Really? What did he do last night?"

"Erm..." Harry reddened, unable how to quite phrase it. He didn't even know if it was a good idea to mention it to Hermione, but there was no way that he could make sense of it on his own.

Okay, so Malfoy was damaged. Right. And the full moon was approaching, so he was more violent, aggressive, restless, annoying, snotty, et cetera – got it.

At what point did sexually assaulting people in bed factor into the equation?

Harry was fairly inexperienced when it came to sex and relationships (some people had bigger worries on their mind, after all, such as saving the world) but he wasn't stupid. Seamus Finnigan was a notorious pervert, and this in combination with the banter in the Quidditch change rooms, Harry had been educated, to some extent. He had just never imagined that he himself would be placed in _that_ sort of a situation.

He had a girlfriend, after all.

"What is it, Harry?" asked Hermione. "Are you feeling all right? You're not feverish, are you?"

Malfoy attacked me. Malfoy assaulted me. Malfoy suggested that he was going to give me a good hard seeing-to.

"Um...well..." Harry grasped for the words. Maybe this was a bad idea. Talking to Hermione about sex felt like talking to...well, Mrs. Weasley, almost. Except worse. But who else could he tell? He imagined trying to tell Ron for one second and knew that he'd be charged with murder and sent off to Azkaban directly, Harry Potter or not.

"Malfoy did...something last night that was very embarrassing for the both of us and should never be spoken of again, ever," Harry finally said in a rush.

"Oh," said Hermione. "Hm."

"We were...in bed..." Harry forced out.

"OH!" said Hermione. She flushed. "Ohh. I see."

"And I don't see why he would do that!" Harry continued. "Is it a werewolf thing?"

Did being a werewolf make you _that way_? Was THAT what he and Bill were up to? Oh God, did this mean that Remus...?

"Now, Harry," Hermione said. "It could very well be. But even if it isn't, what does it matter?"

Harry had worked himself into a mental tizzy and couldn't stop it. It was as if there were a little Ron ranting inside his head.

Remus's relationship with Sirius always seemed a little off. Oh God, what about his dad? Was it contagious? Werewolfery was contagious, after all. Harry was willing to bet his Gringotts account that this sort of thing never happened to other people.

"Harry. Harry!" Hermione said. Apparently she had been talking about sex, or something. "Are you even listening to me? You of all people should be accepting of other people's preferences..."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm down the thoughts that were running amok in his head. "It's not that I have a problem with other people's preferences, I just have a problem with _Malfoy_..."

"What is the problem with Draco? Why does it matter who it is? Why, I heard that Dumbledore had a relationship with Grindelwald..."

"It's _different_ when it's Malfoy. I mean, it's _Malfoy_," Harry explained. "He dated Pansy Parkinson. He had a girlfriend." Harry scrunched up his face as he registered what Hermione said. "...Dumbledore and Grindelwald? Really?"

"Yes, really. Read something other than a Quidditch magazine, your brain will thank you."

"Actually, my brain is really hurting right now and I kind of want it to shrivel up and die." He hated himself, really. "Ow, thanks Hermione."

"Don't mention it." Her pen scratched nonchalantly on parchment, taking notes as if everything was normal and Harry's mind wasn't in the process of breaking.

"And just because he had a girlfriend doesn't mean anything," she said. "Maybe he didn't realise his real preferences until later on, and up until then, he was just doing what was expected of him, or what he thought that he should do...Or maybe he's bisexual. It does happen, you know."

"_Why_ are we discussing Malfoy's sexuality?" asked Harry, looking aggrieved.

"Why are you so hung up on Malfoy's sexuality?" Hermione countered, curious.

"Because he was coming on to me!" Harry cried, unable to contain himself. "He never even told me about..._that_...himself. He could have at least done that."

It wasn't right, to keep such a secret from someone. He should have at least been honest. This was lying by omission. Betrayal, in a way, after all Harry had done for him, too. He had been nothing but good to him since he first picked him up from that bloody hospital; he had even taken him shopping for Merlin's sake.

Harry wouldn't have been surprised if Malfoy had just done the whole act just to mess with him.

"It's hopeless," Harry said, shaking his head, "he must _really_ hate me."

"Harry," Hermione looked at him oddly, "are you usually attracted to people you hate?"

"No, of course not," Harry replied. "I'm not that messed up. I mean, it's just that he _would_ do something like this just to make me miserable. It figures. Typical Malfoy."

Hermione was looking at him as if she couldn't quite figure him out.

"His actions aren't entirely his fault, you know," Hermione finally said.

Harry remembered Malfoy's pale face, absolutely appalled, his complete mortification, the awkwardness. The whole situation upset him but words failed him. He poked at some potion ingredients on the table, wanted to pick up a mortar and pestle and grind everything to dust.

"I...I suppose you're right."

"You should try and talk to him," she continued, as if that were the most natural conclusion in the world.

"_Talk_ to him? I don't even know how I'm going to _look_ at him, after that!" Harry gave her what he hoped was a hopeless look. Hermione was not so easily moved.

"Harry, why did the Healer ask you to take Draco in?" she asked.

_He could be...damaged._

"Because...he said something about how he's dangerous, and he needs…something about a family setting. Support."

"Right," Hermione said. "Malfoy's different. Changed. And I don't just mean recently. I was wary about it at first...upset, even. But when I thought about what you said, I realised that you really did do the right thing here, Harry. I think he's more traumatised than he ever lets on, and all this...you've been really good for him."

_I thought you said you didn't remember anything._

_Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it?_

Harry turned his eyes to her face, thinking on the way Malfoy had trembled and shook, even lying next to him in bed.

"You really think I've been good for him?"

"You're the strongest connection he has, out of all of us," she said. "Isn't that right? George is a mess and so's Mrs. Weasley..."

"You're right, he doesn't have anyone else," Harry said. He felt determined now, resolute. "It has to be me." It was the only way, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. He had defeated the Most Evil Wizard of Our Time, after all...what was there to be afraid of, from Malfoy?

Except it was _Malfoy._

Who was possibly _that way._

Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"Best to be careful," Hermione reminded him, "After all, we wouldn't want any...repeat incidents."

Harry blushed. "No, of course not. And...I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anybody..."

"Of course I wouldn't, Harry. It's embarrassing after all. And I can't imagine that Ginny would be too happy."

Harry laughed nervously. "Oh, God," he said. "Ginny would have _kittens_ if she knew."

* * *

Ginny had spent a restless night; her bed had felt cold, uncomfortable. Still, she lay in bed as the hours grew, even as she heard footsteps in the hall and down the stairs – no use running into Malfoy again, after all.

That voice had stayed with her the entire night, reaching inside of her to places that she didn't want to think of. At first she felt ashamed, and then angry, and the fire was safe; she let it consume her, her mind and cheeks and chest burning. Her heart curled and uncurled, like fingers forming a fist.

When the light from the morning sun slanted across her eyes, she realised she hadn't slept at all.

She headed downstairs and heard voices from the study: Harry and Hermione.

"I can't imagine that Ginny would be too happy," Hermione was saying.

Harry laughed. "Oh, _God._ Ginny would have _kittens_ if she knew."

What were they talking about? What were they keeping from her? She stopped in place, listening to see if they would go on. But the conversation switched to the potion that Hermione was working on (_Malfoy again_) and her name didn't come up anymore.

As footsteps approached Ginny quickly walked back to the stairs, trying to make it look as if she had just come down them.

"Oh, Ginny," Harry said. "Good morning." He smiled at her, as if nothing had ever changed at all.

"Morning," Ginny replied.

"Are you all right? You look a bit pale."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Now that you mention it, I think I don't feel very well. You'll just have to take care of me today."

Harry laughed. "Fine. It would be my pleasure."

"That's what you say now," she grinned. "You can start by making me breakfast."

"Of course," Harry said. "I mean, I'm not a good a cook as Malfoy, but...Ginny?" He put a hand on her arm.

"Sorry, Harry," Ginny forced a smile. "I guess I really am not feeling very well."

"Do you want to sit down?" Harry asked, his voice full of concern.

"I'll be fine..." Ginny replied, leaning into his touch. "Harry, you would tell me something if it were important to you, right? ...You wouldn't lie to me to try and protect me?"

"Of course I wouldn't, Ginny," Harry replied. "Where do you get these ideas?"

She tried to look for the killer in him, that secret darkness lurking just beneath the surface, the stained hands that tormented him at night, but he looked the same as ever, with his strong jaw, broad chest and shoulders, his green eyes open and kind. Malfoy was a dirty liar, no change there, who would always use whatever he had to make other people hurt in the worst way. He would find your wounds just to rub salt in them; he was lemon juice in all your cuts.

"I just had a weird dream, that's all," Ginny told him. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"I would hope not," Harry said.

* * *

Malfoy had locked himself in his room for a good part of the day. Harry was thankful that at least he stayed in one place. It had taken Harry at least that long to gather up the courage to approach him.

Finally, he did, knocking on the door and feeling stupid once he had done it.

"What do you want?" demanded the voice from the other side.

"Malfoy...Draco, we need to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," Malfoy's voice snarled, "And don't call me that."

"I want to talk to you about..." Harry stopped and tried again. "Would you just let me in?"

"Let me think about it, hm, _no_."

"Look," Harry told him, "you can let me in or I can try and break down the door. Guess which one is more embarrassing for the both of us."

There was the sound of muffled cursing. Finally the door opened a crack, and when Harry entered the room, Malfoy was already storming away, trying to get as far from him as possible.

"Stubborn, aren't you?" Malfoy asked, turning around, clearly flustered. His clothes were rumpled, his hair tousled.

Harry allowed himself a small grin. "I've been told it's one of my more endearing qualities." He closed the door behind him.

Malfoy was watching him warily, backed up like a creature in a cage. "I _really_ don't think you should come near me."

Harry reddened, remembering the other night. "I'll just...stay right here, okay? But...I can talk to you?"

"You can talk, but I don't have to listen to you."

"Fair enough," Harry took a deep breath. "I just want to say that...about that...I mean, I understand..."

"And just what," Malfoy's voice sounded strange to him again, unfamiliar, "is it that you _understand_?" The blonde was regarding him with an unhealthy amount of interest now.

Feeling the touch of that silver gaze, Harry took a step backward.

"You see, you're going through um...a gibbon phase, and you're waxing," Harry explained.

Malfoy blinked at him and the intensity was gone. "I'm a _monkey_...? Who _waxes_? Why? Shaving seems so much more practical. And less painful." He looked at Harry oddly. "And why would anybody shave a monkey anyhow? What would you _do_ with a hairless monkey? ...Nevermind, don't answer that. Potter, you are very disturbed, you know this, right?"

Harry actually found himself so busy laughing with relief that he forgot to be indignant. "No, you idiot," he said. "The moon. It's getting bigger."

"Right," said Malfoy, "but what does this have to do with depilating monkeys?"

"Look, forget about the monkeys for a second—"

"You're the one who brought them up," Malfoy pointed out.

Harry put his face in his hands. "You're going to make me as batty as you are, aren't you?"

"Oh, drat. Now you've gone and spoilt my secret master plan."

Harry looked up a little now, peering at the blonde through his fingers. "Was last night part of your master plan?"

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that!" Malfoy spluttered. A look of dawning horror took over his features. "_That's_ what you want to talk about? Oh, sure, laugh it up, Potter. Real nice. You're kind, really. You here to torture me about that? To get your jollies? I don't know what came over me, okay! It's like the nightmares, I can't control it, and I assure you, I am just as disgusted as you are!"

Harry put up his hands, palms outward, in a gesture that was both defensive and placating. "That's what I'm trying to tell you! I mean, not that I'm disgusted -I know it's not your fault, all right? And I'm really not disgusted at all, there's nothing _wrong_ with...I mean, it just was a shock, you know, to find out that you fancy me-"

Malfoy turned a funny colour. "I _what_ you?"

"Um, er, that is...you...ah..."

"Don't tell me you just said what I think you just said. My ears, with all their super-sharp hearing, must deceive me."

"Um..."

"_Fancy_?" Malfoy strode towards him now, absolutely livid. "_Me? You?_ Ha!"

Harry backed up into the door.

Malfoy continued stalking and ranting.

"As if _I_ would ever—no, the very thought of it makes me ill. That you would even _dare_ to think that for a second I could...I can't believe the nerve of you!" On the word "nerve" he fisted his hands in Harry's robes, jerking Harry forward so that they were nose to nose.

Harry gulped and anticipated the pain of the back of his head being rudely introduced to the wooden door.

"Potter, you egotistical _bastard_," Malfoy spat out.

And then several things happened.

He slammed Harry's head, hard, into the door.

And then he mashed their lips together.

Harry froze, too stunned to react.

In a second it was over as Malfoy pulled back, grey eyes widening with sickened realisation, and then he sprung back and in another second he was halfway across the room, wiping at his mouth and spitting. Harry thought vaguely that he understood the sentiment, but really, was all that gagging and retching absolutely necessary?

"You sure showed me," Harry managed in a small voice.

"Out," Malfoy growled dangerously. "Get out!"

"I understand that...you didn't mean to do that..." Harry continued, voice tiny, knowing the shock that had come over him had nothing to do with the pain throbbing in his skull.

"OUT!" Malfoy shouted. He cursed and then grabbed a book and threw it at Harry's head. When Harry dodged, he grabbed a paperweight from off the desk and chucked that. "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT OUT OUT!"

Harry managed to escape, narrowly avoiding being pelted by various objects of different shapes and sizes. Thank Merlin for Youngest-Seeker-in-a-Century skills. One or two bruises didn't count.

* * *

Draco was absolutely mortified. His thoughts were sliding around his head, all twisted and wrong.

His body was no longer his own, it seemed. He was sharing it with something, something else, another being, that growled and bit and apparently wanted to shag Potter.

He had spent the rest of the day wanting to be sick. He felt like throwing up several times but he never quite managed it. There was a feeling in his stomach and he realised, with a wave of nausea, that it was just hunger.

At dinner, he asked Mrs. Weasley politely if he could take it in his room, instead.

"What?" she said, barely seeming to see him. "Oh, yes, of course dear. Eat your vegetables, mind you."

But vegetables appealed to him even less than normal, green and steamed as they were, and more than anything he wanted a wand again so that he could Transfigure them into meat. Or at least Charm them so they ran from him on little vegetable legs and screamed when he bit into them.

He was fucked up.

He had known this already, of course, and the fact that he was currently gnawing on the bedpost only provided further evidence.

He forced himself to stop before he got splinters in his tongue. He had left white teeth marks on the wood, and his mouth tasted of furniture varnish.

This thing in him was destructive; it made his insides ache with it, as if it were growing outwards, trying to push through the layers of muscle and skin. He wanted to toss his head back and spin his pain out to the moon.

_I'll make it good. I'll make you feel really good...I'll make it hurt._

There was pain and horror here, just lingering on the edge of memory.

Question of amnesia, the mediwizard had said. Yes. It was that. Not just a question.

The images had floated to the surface in his memory, like bubbles in muddy, murky water.

The teeth that had torn into him, the pain that had split through him, the feeling that his body was ripping into two pieces. The merciless dry scraping thumping burning of something inside of him, the way his thighs had slicked with his own blood. The bubbles popped, the images dissipated.

The idea of a creature shaped itself in the recesses of his mind. Glowing eyes, like candles inside a skull. Snarling lips pulled back from yellowed teeth; and how red his gums were.

In a flash, he was looking into a mouth like a black hole full of sharp teeth and wondering where the scream had gone. The fear welled up inside of him and it burst and ruptured; his throat felt ragged with the need to scream but it was as if a foul hand had clamped itself over his mouth – he couldn't make a sound.

He remembered when he first woke up, and the horror of the mediwizard's touch; those gloved fingers upon his skin seemed slimy, like worms, and _he was going to hurt him_ and Draco's mind screamed _no no no_ so it was a lucky thing that the Healer only got thrown against the wall; it could have been much worse than that.

It was okay as long as nobody touched him.

The idea of other people made his guts roil deep in his belly, made the taste of bile fill his mouth. Only two people didn't make him react that way.

His aunt was allowed to touch him, she was family.

Potter was allowed to touch him; his touch didn't make him feel as if he wanted to die. He angled his body protectively towards Draco sometimes...the sap probably wasn't even aware that he did it.

It really was no wonder that if this creature inside of him would seek out anyone, it would be Potter. He thought back on the first night, how the nightmares had ruptured through the membranes of forgetting and shredded into him. How the pain and loss and sorrow and pain had overcome him, and how a comforting, concerned presence had made it stop, if just for a little while. And then Potter had listened to him, had taken him in, had slept next to him and watched over him so that he could sleep and dream of dreaming of nothing.

Dimly, Draco reflected on the unfairness of it always being Potter. All roads lead to Rome, or something. All roads lead to home.

Potter had been safe, had wanted to curl around him and protect him and all Draco wanted to do was reach into him and twist his intestines around his hands and slowly tug them out.

He closed his eyes and saw blood, felt _it_ inside of him snap its teeth. The monstrosity. His monstrosity. His blood was tainted now, not so pure and ruby and wonderful anymore.

Pureblood...Half-Blood...Blood.

It was all blood, wasn't it. It all led back to blood in the end.

He thought of teeth, hard and sharp against the back of his neck. The drip of hot thick saliva down his collar. It had smelled like meat and rot. Everything was death.

He was tainted. Worthless. Disgusting. Unclean.

And even more so as he realised that the writhing in his belly was just his body being turned on.

_You wanted this..._

It had thrilled him, the way Bill had pressed him into the ground, had devoured him. He wanted it rough and brutal and needy with pain and blood in equal amounts as the pleasure, to be used. And in the same way, he wanted someone panting and unwilling beneath him, his blood sang at the thought of it, someone struggling and losing and breaking under him.

_Fuck him dry and cleave him in twain then rip him open and lap up the blood, feel the squish of meat between your teeth so good so good_

He could kill.

He drew all the curtains in his room and put himself to bed as the sun was setting, not wanting to risk seeing the moon.

* * *

Harry's bed felt extraordinarily cold tonight, although he had thrown on an extra blanket, just in case.

He tossed and turned since he could now, unlike before.

He had spent the rest of the day with Ginny, although he couldn't tell her why he was being unnecessarily jittery. He must have told her that he loved her at least five times, much to her obvious pleasure.

There was no way he was telling Hermione the outcome of his chat with Malfoy.

He was unabashedly relieved when Malfoy didn't take his dinner with the rest of the family. There was no way that Harry could have spent an entire dinner with him, looking at him from across the table.

Of course it wasn't Malfoy's fault, that _that_ had happened, but...it was unnerving, still. It was only a little natural to be a little freaked out by it, after all, anybody would – it wasn't every day that a person was assaulted and Harry had been, twice, in less than twenty-four hours.

Harry didn't know what to do. He had to be supportive, as Hermione had said, but...well. One couldn't possibly see _that_ as providing support!

It was then he heard the crying and moaning.

Malfoy.

Just like the first night.

Harry lay in bed and listened to it go on.

He could lie here all night like this. He really shouldn't go see him.

It wasn't his...well, it _was_ his responsibility.

This would probably go on all night.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and got to his feet. He would just stand outside his door and check on him, he decided. Because, really. Just because he did things that were out of his control didn't mean he should have to suffer like that.

As he walked down the hall, Harry decided that if the door was locked, that meant Malfoy didn't want to see anybody, least of all him. If the door was locked, then he would go. If the door was unlocked, well – that was basically an invitation, wasn't it? Malfoy would surely think of locking the door.

Okay, locked door go, unlocked door stay.

Easy enough.

The door was open just a crack.

Harry took a deep breath and slowly, quietly pushed it open.

Malfoy wasn't asleep. He was sitting up in bed, his face pressed against his knees. He gave no indication that he had heard Harry, and his shoulders shook slightly.

"Malfoy..." Harry said, before he could stop himself.

He raised his face then, and it was wet, grey eyes shining.

Harry recognised that same stricken look on Malfoy's face when he had found him crying in the bathroom. Here was that moment of vulnerability again, the same way he had wanted to make it up to him the first night he had stayed here. Back then, the moment had passed and there was only the blood and pain afterwards, the fear that he had actually killed him.

Harry could make it up to him, this time around.

Looking at Malfoy, his pale arms wrapped around his knees, Harry felt a strange squeezing inside his body.

His wrists were thin and sharp, almost white against the darkness of his trousers, as if Harry could see through the skin, straight to the bone.

The room was very dark, the curtains all drawn, so what little light there was reflected off his skin, his hair. He looked more ghost than boy.

"Potter..." Malfoy managed. "I'm not...in the mood...to deal with you right now." His voiced wavered, uncertain, as if he couldn't quite catch his breath after sobbing.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, not quite knowing what he was apologising for. "I really am."

"Could you just..." Malfoy hiccoughed, and then he laughed. He wiped at his face viciously. "Merlin. Of all the people..."

Harry stayed near the doorway. He felt as if he shouldn't make any sudden movements either, so as not to startle this volatile animal.

"I just want you to know that you can talk to me," he said, slowly and softly. He didn't have much experience soothing anyone, but he thought that was how you did it. "I'm...here for you. And stuff."

"Talk to you...? As if you understand," Malfoy scoffed, trying to sound a little bit more like himself and failing. "At least I _had_ parents."

"I know," said Harry. "It's...difficult for you."

"And I...I don't know what's happening to me. I mean, I do...but..." Malfoy wrapped his arms around himself tighter, as if he could somehow withdraw even further into himself. He looked at the curtain hanging covering the window closest to his bed. His eyes were dark and wide.

"It's only going to get worse, you know," he said quietly.

"I know," Harry said.

"When I close my eyes, I see these horrible..." he trailed off, voice shaky. "When I go to sleep, I...and then, when I wake up tomorrow...I might not be me anymore."

"But you'll come back," said Harry. "You will. Eventually."

"If I don't go insane," said Malfoy.

"You won't," Harry promised.

"You'll be here, I suppose?" Malfoy mocked lightly. "Can't get rid of you, can I?"

"I'm afraid you're stuck," said Harry. "Like hair on a monkey."

Malfoy laughed then, even if was just a little. "Some people want to remove that hair."

"Yeah," said Harry, smiling now, "But there's something very wrong with them. Besides, it always comes back."

Malfoy shook his head ruefully at him, but he seemed to be smiling in spite of himself. Harry laughed just to hear the sound of it, trying not to look at the closed curtains.


	5. It's Bound to Take Your Life

**It's Bound to Take Your Life**

**

* * *

**

It was the greatest battle that they had ever seen; the violence, the screams, the carnage. The body count rose mercilessly as the opposing forces tore each other apart, neither willing to admit defeat, neither willing to surrender. Each soldier fought valiantly, willing to lay down their lives, if need be, for love of God and Country and all their Countrymen. They lost hands, they lost limbs, they lost eyes; they were drunk with fatigue, blood-soaked, and although in war there is, arguably, never a winner – in the end there could only be one true victor.

"Checkmate," said Ron triumphantly. 'That's three for three, Harry."

"Hey," said Harry, "it's been a while. You don't need to trounce me, you know. You could go a little easy."

"But you'll never strive for improvement if you aren't met with challenge," Ron told him sagely.

"You got that from Hermione, didn't you?"

"No, no, of course not!" Ron protested. "What, you don't think I could come up with that?"

Harry looked at him.

"All right, maybe. Maybe it was a little inspired by her. Maybe a lot inspired. Who cares? It's true, isn't it?"

It was nice, sitting in the living room, playing chess with Ron. It felt as if it had been years since they had last played together, another life ago. Ron looked older now, his blue eyes sharper, wiser, his face lean and defined. He had some stubble growing in; probably hadn't shaved in the past several days, not since the funeral. He held it together, for the most part, better than his parents for sure, better than Ginny and better than Percy, and well, anybody was better off than George.

Harry felt extraordinarily grateful for his best friend, especially grateful now that he had stopped threatening to mutilate Malfoy.

"Where is Hermione, anyway?" Harry asked, watching the chess pieces duke it out as Ron's side claimed their victory.

Ron stretched out his long limbs, yawning. "Oh, she's checking up on Malfoy."

Harry stole a sideways glance at Ron. "You trust him alone with her?"

"Not really," Ron admitted. "But she gave me some long speech about how she needs her _space_ and women's rights and women's lib – and I don't even know what a lib is - but lots of blah blah, I needn't be so protective, she can take care of herself and I dunno, I kind of zoned out, tell you the truth, but she called me names, like a Knee-and-her-stall."

"Neanderthal?" Harry offered.

"Yeah, that. It wasn't very nice. Said I'd club her over the head and drag her off by the hair or something. I'd never do that! I'm not a troll. You don't think she means I _look_ like a troll, do you?"

"Er," said Harry, and wondered that if this was somehow the male equivalent of 'does this make my butt look big,' in some very odd way. "You're not troll-like at all," he reassured Ron hurriedly.

"Good," Ron said, "didn't think so," completely casual and un-offended – which was when Harry remembered that Ron, thankfully, was not Ginny or Cho. Or Malfoy, for that matter.

"Hermione does seem to get on with him for whatever reason, though," Ron said, thoughtfully. "To be honest, I think it's from breathing in all those potions fumes. Makes you barmy."

"True," said Harry. "They _are_ both quite barmy."

"Anyway," Ron said, "if she thinks I'm going to come running to her rescue like some knight in shining armour when that slimy git makes a move on her, she's got another think com—"

A high-pitched squeal sounded from upstairs.

"Hermione!" both of them cried, shooting up from their seats. They didn't even need to look at each other for the unison cry. Ron bounded up the stairs in a knightly manner, Harry followed in hot pursuit.

* * *

Harry and Ron entered the room to find the bed bolted to the wall, Hermione casting protective wards, and Malfoy Stunned and passed out.

"Hermione!" Ron said. "Is your virtue intact?"

"Hermione!" Harry said. "You _chained_ him to the bed?"

"Why, hello, Ron, Harry," Hermione greeted. "And yes, and yes. That's a yes on both counts."

"You _chained_ him to the _bed?_" Harry repeated.

"Well, I wanted him to be comfortable," Hermione began to explain.

"This is comfortable?" Harry asked, indicating the unconscious Malfoy.

"Well, it's not like I had any other choice - I had to, after what happened..." The blush that crept across Hermione's face belied whatever nice neutral phrasing she had chosen in an attempt to cover up for Malfoy. And made Ron suspect that perhaps his girlfriend was a terrible, terrible liar.

"What did he do? I'll kill him!" Ron said. "Let me at him, I'll kill him!"

"He didn't _do_ anything, Ron," Hermione soothed. "And stop getting that worried look, Harry, I only Stunned him lightly. He should be waking up any moment now. Don't fret."

Harry wanted to protest the fact that Hermione thought that he even _had _a worried look – because if he did, he certainly didn't know about it. And he certainly didn't fret, and certainly not over the likes of _Malfoy._ Never mind the fact that Malfoy was looking awfully wan and pale, and oh god, he didn't even look like he was breathing—

Before Harry could say any of these things, the prone figure on the bed began to stir, moaning low in his throat.

"You see?" Hermione said, and Harry could hear the unspoken _I told you so_. He refrained from muttering to Ron, 'know-it-all.'

"The both of you better stay back," Hermione said.

"Why?" asked Harry. "Is he that dangerous?"

"You'll see in a second," she said, walking back to join them, making sure to keep a good distance between herself and the bed. Ron grabbed her arm and tugged her towards him, sliding a possessive arm around her waist. She looked at him reproachfully, but didn't say anything, sighing and leaning back against him instead.

Harry was fixated on Malfoy, wondering how he had woken up different. Was he more aggressive? Did he bite? Did he try to...

Oh God, did he assault Hermione? Anger flared through him, sharp and black. Assaulting Harry was one thing, but if he dared to lay a finger on Hermione...And then again, Hermione! How could she let such a thing happen? She had a boyfriend, after all! And if she was such a know-it-all how could she not see that coming, why didn't she prevent it -

Harry wanted to hurt something.

Malfoy was waking up.

Malfoy blinked, slowly opening his eyes. His pupils were dilated, his eyes dark and wide – glittering black against the pallor of his skin, he looked more animal than human. It didn't take long for Malfoy to realise that he was incapacitated, and as soon as he did, he snarled, yanking and pulling against the chains, showing sharp white teeth. Harry, Hermione, and Ron all took a step back instinctively. Harry's hand reflexively went to his wand. Ron nobly put himself between Hermione and the bed where Malfoy lay. This noble gesture was only slightly undermined by the fact that he put the both of them behind Harry.

Malfoy sniffed the air and licked his lips, rolling his body sinuously.

"Harry," Ron gulped, "your dog's doing something weird."

Harry braced himself for the worst.

There was no other word for it but horrifying: Malfoy suddenly turned a wide-eyed and pleading look to his captors, his lashes looked particularly long, somehow. "Now why on earth would any of you chain me up?" he asked innocently. "It's not like I bite." His voice was sweet, breathy, low.

Harry had never, in the entire time that he'd known Malfoy, known him to sound anything like that. It was a horror, it was a travesty...it was pleasant. He sounded so _nice _and so...so...charming. Harry wished that he would sound like that more often; it was much better than his usual sarcastic drawl. He was lovely.

A shudder wracked Malfoy's body and the whole of him trembled. Oh, maybe he wasn't all right, maybe Hermione had Stunned him harder than she'd thought, and it was of utmost importance that Harry pay very close attention to the way his body moved, looking for any sign of injury. Malfoy shivered and writhed on the sheets, whining softly.

"Harry," Malfoy said, turning those eyes onto him, those eyes so large and dark, using that voice, so low and velvety. "Harry, come here and let me out."

This was perhaps a silly, throwaway thought, but really - why hadn't he ever noticed just how beautiful Malfoy could be? The pale gold hair that softened his usually sharp features, the eyes the colour of a storm, his lashes as long as a girl's.

Malfoy was harmless. There was no reason to chain him up like that. He was _nice_, just _lovely_, really, and a cuddler in bed to boot.

Harry was halfway across the room before he even realised that Hermione was calling his name.

"Harry! HARRY! Harry James Potter!"

"What?" Harry asked. He heard her voice, echo-y, distant, as if through water. Whatever it was, he was sure that it could wait. After all, Draco needed to be rescued from his bondage, and he'd be _ever_ so grateful...

"Oi mate, do you have any idea what you're doing?" Ron said, grabbing his arm and giving him a little shake. "You look like you've taken a Bludger to the head and you're practically _drooling."_

"This is _exactly_ what I wanted to warn you about," said Hermione, grabbing his other arm and pulling him back.

"What are you doing? Let me go!" Harry protested. He struggled against them, they were his friends, sure, but right now, they were literally holding him back. They were standing between him and Draco, who _needed_ him. Harry had to help him out, they didn't understand.

"Harry, think about it," Hermione said patiently. "Just what would you do if we let you go?"

It was a profoundly silly question. The answer was simple, he'd just go over there, climb up on the bed, and just help himself to_..._

_A nice big slice of werewolf pie_, his brain supplied helpfully, and more than a little hopefully.

"Oh God! What am I thinking?" Harry exclaimed, jumping back in shock and horror. He shook his head to try and clear some of the images forming, images that involved one Draco Malfoy, tied up on his bed, writhing languidly, looking entreating, looking needy – Oh God, this wasn't working. He had to shake harder.

"Why am I thinking these things?" Harry cried in horror, hand slapping against his forehead as if he could knock the thoughts out of his brain.

"Pheromones," Hermione said, matter-of-factly. She sounded a little dazed herself. "He's giving off heavy pheromones."

"Yeah," said Ron, "I mean, I love Hermione and all, but even _I'm_ thinking that right now Malfoy's looking pretty fuc—"

Ron made a gurgling noise as he realised what he was in the middle of saying and proceeded to have an existential crisis.

"Pheromones?" Harry echoed, not quite believing it. After all, Draco really was quite pretty, all pale skin and that silky blonde hair, that slender body that had fit so nicely against his in bed...

Oh, God, _pheromones_.

Harry felt dizzy with the realisation, as if he were on the verge of blacking out.

And then he had to shake his head. Again.

"It's not working for me either!" Ron said, close to tears. "Shake harder!"

"He was like this when I came to check up on him," Hermione was explaining calmly, despite the pink blush that stained cheeks.

"And _you_ chained him to the bed?" Ron squeaked.

"Well, ah..." Hermione blushed hotly now. "Like I said, I wanted him to be comfortable."

"Right, and not because you have a strange preference for chaining people to beds!" Ron growled at her.

After a moment, he said, contemplatively, "Although I never thought of tying Malfoy up to get him out of the way," and that was Ron for you, always looking on the bright side.

Then, of course, he just had to continue, "Only you should've gagged him, too- argh!" And sent himself into crisis mode all over again.

"Now why didn't I think of a gag?" Hermione asked herself, purely in the interest of science, of course.

Between the two of them and Malfoy, Harry really was going to faint any second.

"Harry, I'll be so good for you," Malfoy whined entreatingly.

He was biting his lip, white teeth catching at the soft pinkness of it, a hint of red tongue. He was licking his lips, making them glisten, and his mouth looked so soft and warm—

Stop it, stop it, stop it, Harry wanted to scream. This wasn't Draco Malfoy, but rather a sort of Other, some different being, some strange, seductive creature, blind to everything but its own needs. It was utterly fascinating. And by fascinating he meant horrible. It was awful, it was sickening.

"He's reached the next stage in his transformation," Hermione was saying. "We can't have him running around the house like this. Who knows what could happen."

"Why is he...ah..." Harry asked, trying to tear his eyes away. "Why does he do that? The pheromone thing." It would help if he couldn't _hear _Malfoy right now, too. But then that just brought up images of the gag and how useful it would be, and how nice it would look, and Harry could—

Harry could pay attention to Hermione when she was talking to him.

"There's no documented research of this behaviour," Hermione said, looking at the floor and twisting her hair in her hands – she didn't seem to be aware that she was doing it. "But, just from observing him..."

Harry couldn't help observing him, the arch of that pale throat, the softly panted breaths, couldn't help wondering about what Draco meant by saying that he would be _good_ for him, just for him, only for him...

"...it would seem that he appears to be, ah," Hermione stuttered over it. "In a heightened...hormonal state..."

"He's in heat," said Ron weakly.

"Right," said Hermione.

"Oh," said Harry.

Ron seemed to be breathing heavily. "Look, guys, you two can stay in here chatting up – _about_ Malfoy all you want, but this is too queer for me. By which I mean weird. Strange. Not on. By which I mean, I'm leaving."

Then he looked at the two of them, and again at Malfoy writhing on the bed. "By which I mean you're both coming with me."

Harry, much to his great embarrassment later, had to be physically dragged out of the room.

* * *

"Ugh!" exclaimed Ron, making a face and gagging loudly. "Abstinence tastes _vile._"

Harry was inclined to agree. His mouth felt like had been swabbed out with the basement mop, and then he had followed it with a rotten-egg-puree-and-toilet-water chaser. "I think I'm going to puke," he said.

"I wish I could puke just to get the taste out of my mouth!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Come on, guys, it's not that bad. Nobody actually _likes_ it, but we all have to utilise it. It's the only fail-safe method. Those other methods are just rumours passed on by gullible teenagers. You don't actually think Rhythm works, do you?"

She was referring, of course, to the Abstinence Solution, a potion that basically amounted to the liquid equivalent of taking a very cold shower. Guaranteed to calm raging hormones, tame primal urges, and dampen teenage lusts, it was most useful when served before Yule Balls, in schools where there was a very low staff to student ratio, and on ships of all-male crews that were set afloat for many months at sea. Madame Pomfrey had apparently kept it in stock, for all those students who had failed to keep it in their pants.

"We'll have to make sure the rest of the household takes it, too," said Hermione. "Wouldn't want any mishaps to happen with anybody else at home..."

Ron choked and Harry paled, both of them visualising the exact same deeply disturbing image.

Teenage rabbit libidos, thought Harry, and then immediately wanted to commit a very bloody suicide.

"_Merlin_," Ron choked out, clearly psychologically and emotionally traumatised. "I'm never, _ever_ going to be able to get it up ever again."

"Hey," said Harry. "At least that means you won't have to drink any more of this muck."

"It's a price I wasn't willing to pay!" Ron bemoaned, hands over his eyes.

Hermione showed them both up by drinking hers down smoothly, only indulging once when she was done by simply making a face. "If the two of you are done with your theatrics, there are several things you need to know. This version lasts at least 24 hours. I've brewed a double-dosage, however, just to be on the safe side, so that should last us well past the full moon. That said, even with the potion, it's probably best not to be exposed to Draco, or expose Draco to us, for any extended period of time."

The idea of finally regaining his control over himself made Harry drink down his entire phial, no matter how much it made him want to retch. This morning had been beyond embarrassing, and, worse yet, a little frightening, too.

Malfoy was a dangerous creature indeed.

"So, really, we just have to wait out tonight and tomorrow," Hermione was saying.

"He can't possibly get any worse than this, can he?" Ron asked. "Well, other than the growing fur and fangs bit."

Hermione frowned. "There's the problem. There's really no way of telling. We should set up watch."

Set up watch? The idea didn't make sense to Harry, trying to fight back the discomfort at the thought of watching the blonde writhe helplessly on the bed for hours at a time.

There was probably a better way to phrase that image. Or to imagine that image, for that fact.

"I spilled some of my potion," Harry announced. "I'd better take a little more, just in case."

"Set up watch?" asked Ron. "But I thought you just said we should all stay away."

"Yes," said Hermione, "But we could take shifts. Or we could possibly station outside of the room; that should help. Those chains ought to hold, they're magically-reinforced, and I've set up wards, but one can never be too sure."

Her face changed slightly as she stirred the potion. "It would help to make sure that he doesn't hurt himself, after all."

"Hurt himself?" Harry echoed.

Before he could ask Hermione what she could possibly mean by that, Ginny entered the room. How funny, Harry thought, that Ginny seemed to show up whenever Malfoy was mentioned. For a moment he felt as if he couldn't look her in the eye; he was immensely grateful that she hadn't been present for what had taken place that morning. But then she saw him and smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back.

"Hermione, this strange package just arrived for you via owl," Ginny said. "What's Victoria's Secret?"

Hermione blushed and spluttered. "What? I never ordered any—"

"Just kidding," Ginny grinned. "It's probably potions ingredients or sommat."

Ron looked at his pink girlfriend and figured something was up, and immediately launched into interrogation mode. "Why?" he asked. "Who's Victoria? Why's she so secretive? Is this something else we're going to have to research? Like the horcruxes?"

Horcruxes, Harry thought to himself, had always sounded like a vaguely dirty word.

"Um...don't worry about it," Hermione assured him, still very visibly flustered.

"I really don't think you'd mind Victoria's Secret research too much, Ron," said Ginny lightly.

"How do _you_ know about Victoria's Secret?" Harry asked his girlfriend.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "C'mon, Harry, you don't honestly think I'd spend six years in a girls' dormitory without picking up a thing or two?"

"So this is a female thing?" asked Ron. He was quite persistent. "You females and your secrets. Can't trust the lot of you."

"I'll tell you what it is, later," Harry told him.

Ron seemed appeased by that, until a thought occurred to him. "Hey, how do _you_ know female secrets? And why haven't you told me, if you've known these secret-girl things. I thought we were supposed to be best mates, Harry! What other secrets have you been keeping from me?"

"I'm not keeping any secrets from anybody!" Harry protested. Ron looked at him suspiciously.

Hermione took the package from Ginny and set it aside, still blushing lightly. "It's a good thing that you're here, anyway." She scooped some of the murky, smoking liquid into a vial and handed it to her. "Here, drink this."

Ginny sniffed the potion. "Blech! What're we drinking an anti-funtimes potion for?"

"An anti-funtimes...Ginny!" Ron said, shocked. "You can recognise this potion? Just why would you be able to recognise this potion? Where have you been that they'd give it to you? What have you been _doing_ to warrant it?"

"Hey!" said Ginny, glancing at Harry, and now her face was starting to turn that guilty red. "Maybe some of us actually pay attention in potions class."

Ron paid her no heed. "My own baby sister, doing..._those_ things! Doing...it! Having..._that! _Ginny, you harlot!"

"Ron!" scolded Hermione.

"Ron!" reprimanded Harry.

"Whatever, Ron," said Ginny, "I'm not a baby."

"Drink up," Hermione told her, watching her. "And don't go into Draco's room, no matter what you do."

Ginny's vial paused en route to her lips. "Wait...so, let's see here, I'm guessing this _isn't_ about your very logical fear that Harry and I are going to make babies?"

Ron gagged, and called Ginny a strumpet. Harry looked flustered. Hermione calmly said, "I'm afraid not. It's..."

"Malfoy, right," Ginny interrupted. "What's that parasite up to now?"

Harry felt as if he should defend him, and then he felt that that first feeling was a ridiculous impulse.

"It's a...werewolf thing," Harry said, feeling the heat rise to his face. "It's just very...weird, okay?" He hoped that "weird" was enough, and that that vague explanation would suffice.

Of course, one of the reasons why he liked Ginny was because she was rather on the sharp side. "Is he being all weird and sexy-like?" She made a face. "I don't need protection from that! He's skinny and all points in the face and he has stupid hair. Not my type at all. "

"It's a little more than that, Ginny," Hermione explained. "He's giving off pheromones. It incites a natural physical reaction."

"Yeah," said Ron. "It's really, really disturbing. I mean, _really." _He shuddered at the memory of it, and then looked as if he were ready to go into crisis mode again.

"It's true," Harry offered, "it's not...something that you can control."

Ginny looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Harry could feel sweat prickle on his neck as he wondered just what, exactly, that she was suspicious about. But then she sighed and said, "Fine," and downed the potion, making disgusted noises all the while. She didn't suspect a thing. Probably. Maybe. He hoped.

"Well, now that we've all taken the potion," Hermione said, lining up the empty vials next to each other on the table, "The obvious the next step, logically, is to make sure that it works."

Harry prayed to whatever Powers That Might Be that it worked.

* * *

"I think you should go in first, Hermione," Ron said, nudging her, and then he seemed to realise that he was practically offering his girlfriend up for the slaughter. "Wait, no. Scratch that," he said, placing an arm around Hermione. "Harry, you go first."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Harry asked, face reflecting a mind full of unpleasant thoughts.

"_I'll_ go first," volunteered Ginny, brave as ever, "But I need to go get something before we go on."

"Like what?" asked Harry.

"Oh, I don't know, like, say, a Beater's bat."

"Why?" Ron asked. "He's not playing Quidditch in there..." Understanding dawned on his face as he considered this the proof of his sister's innocence. Perhaps Ginny wasn't the seasoned strumpet that he thought she was after all! "Oh Ginny, dear, sweet, Ginny, that's not what they mean when they refer to beating off—" he began to explain.

"Ron!" Hermione said, scandalised. Harry didn't blame her; he had the sneaking suspicion that sex ed from Ronald Weasley was not something he wanted to witness.

"It's in case the potion doesn't work, _Ron,_" Ginny informed him pointedly, "So I'll have a _weapon_ to beat him with so he can't do anything to me."

"But if it doesn't work," Harry pointed out, "then you won't _want_ to bash his brains in."

"That depends," Ginny smiled back at him, "how effective are his pheromones on _you_?"

Harry was saved from having to answer this as Hermione decided that they should go in as a group.

They entered the room cautiously, with great trepidation, as if it were filled with toxic gas and poisonous fumes, and not just werewolfian hormones. They pushed the door open slowly, edging their way in. It seemed like everybody was holding their breath.

Harry had taken a deep breath, afraid; afraid of what might happen, of what he might do, of what Ginny might see. But when there was no sign of any strange tingly feelings or growing bits down south or other horrifying causes for worry, he sighed with relief.

Draco was still writhing on the bed, of course, much the way that he had been when they had checked on him this morning. The chains held him tight. Only Harry didn't think he was so extraordinarily beautiful anymore, he looked the same as he always did, pale skin and hair, sharp features, too skinny from a year of trials and trauma.

He did think it was unsettling, however, to see the once-proud Malfoy reduced to this, this animalistic, shameless creature with the dark eyes, that propositioned him – would proposition anyone, really, just for a little release, maybe a little bite to eat. The sweat was beading lightly on his brow, his features drawn and pinched, as if in pain. Harry wondered if the chains would bruise his ankles and wrists, those bone-thin wrists he had seen; Malfoy looked so delicate sometimes. It wasn't right. It wasn't healthy.

Harry resolutely stayed near the doorway.

"_Ew_," Ginny said, making a face, "All this fuss for _that_ thing?"

"Oh, Merlin," Ron said fervently, "thank you thank you thank you." As if to prove his newly reassured and reclaimed heterosexuality, he grabbed Hermione and gave her a big, smacking kiss on the lips. "You're a genius, 'Mione!"

"Yeah, the potion's a great success," Harry said. Hermione didn't seem to be listening; her brain apparently turned off for several minutes as she was wrapped up in Ron's arms.

Ginny gagged. Harry politely looked away. He tried not to look at the bed instead; it was too unsettling to see Malfoy like that. He could still hear what that voice had sounded like, it was still there, in the back of his mind, what Malfoy had sounded like, when he had called, _Harry..._

"Harry," Hermione said, when she finally broke away, slightly breathless, "I don't suppose...you'd mind... taking first watch?"

"No," said Harry. "Of course not." It didn't matter now, after all, now that he had the potion to protect him.

"Good," Ron said, and apparently could not resist stealing another kiss.

"I thought the potion _dampened_ hormones," Ginny said, watching the two of them. "Ick."

"Just the overexcessive ones," Hermione said pedagogically, regaining her composure as Ron grinned into her hair. "The appropriate ones slip by."

"Oh, good," said Ginny, smiling at Harry. "I guess that means our date tonight won't be ruined." She bumped into him teasingly with her shoulder.

"Guess not," Harry smiled at her, slipping an arm around her, to wrap around her shoulders and squeeze her tight. He felt ridiculously happy, too, with their minor victory, as happy as Ron and Hermione so clearly felt. But at the same time, he didn't think it was terribly appropriate to kiss Ginny here, so he didn't.

* * *

His teeth itched.

There was a tingling there like tiny little sparks of lightning, like something crackling in his gums. They were aching with the need to bite, to sink in and hold on, to feel tendons sliding between them...

He was hot. He had never felt so hot in his entire life, as if his bones were made of burning coals. The heat spread out from somewhere deep inside of him, flaring though all the parts of his body. His skin tingled and burned; it seemed to be alive on its own, changing twisting, crawling.

He had never known a heat like this before, something that bordered on the edge of pain.

He opened his eyes and everything he saw was haze. He barely knew his own name, knew who he was, knowing only that he was hungry, he was hot, he was thirsty.

There was a knock on the door and a sniff at the air told him who it was before the person even came in. Harry, oh, Harry wanted to be so good for him, he could tell. Yes, he would be so good underneath him, so very good, so sweet, and then so good as he luxuriously ripped his throat out.

"Hello...Harry," he breathed smoothly.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked. "How...are you doing?"

Stupid boy. Harry was looking at him with that _look_ in his eyes, and he dropped his voice to make it coaxing, convincing.

"Come here," he purred, "and find out."

_Pull him in, want him, want him, want him, and break him. Just a human after all, just human after all. Tear him apart and he'll cry and scream and his fingers will be ripped off one by one we'll bite and bite and he'll __**suffer**__, slowly, oh he'll suffer so nicely_

Harry was approaching the bed, and the heat flared up even more intensely than ever, the need boiling in his blood. He could feel himself, hot and heavy between his legs, erect and leaking, his veins aflame.

"Is there anything I can...um...get you?"

_You you your sweet soft flesh in strips and nice and hot and wet_

He lowered his eyes, his gaze wide and full of intensity.

You belong to me, you stupid, pathetic creature, he thought, and he let out an entreating little whimper. "So...h-hot..." he said, with a sinuous roll of his hips.

want to want to slide into him and tear him up inside out want to _push and push and push and rip apart just little pieces of meat and the blood you can hear it you can smell it; taste it taste it taste it_

When he closed his eyes he saw carnage, red and hot, families asleep in bed and then white teeth at their throats, children running running as fast as they can but their little legs never fast enough.

He could hear a voice, low and deep and rumbling, hissing and hoarse, vile and wild. My killer, my killer, it said.

_you want it you know my creature my killer killer go kill_

Harry gulped, and suddenly the scent of fear was sweet in the air, the sharpness in the sweat and the tang of it.

His intestines twisted in his belly, like writhing snakes.

_you'll do it you'll do it you will do it you have no choice grab him by the neck and snap his bones and rip his throat and the moon is coming, she's on her way my creature look at him look at him how can you look and not want to __destroy__ him_

The deep voice rolled through him like thunder in the distance. He could see blood splattering on walls and the sound of black wetness dripping onto leaves on the forest floor.

"W-water," he panted. "Water…" and Harry nodded, although still staying too far away, far too far, out of his reach.

He would have him yet, press him against a wall and fuck him hard. Claim him. Mark him. Ruin him. Show him who owned who, here.

_we can pull his bones out, just you and I and our claws. reach in and grab and twist and pull_

_taste his skin from the other side and lick it long and sweet…_

"I can get you water. You just…stay here…well, not like you have much—I mean, hold on, okay? I'll be back in a minute." And true to his word, Harry was gone and then back and then cold glass pressed against his lips. He looked at Harry with his dark eyes, making sure all Harry saw were dark pools rippling with servile gratitude.

"Shh," Harry said, so soothing, so trusting. It got them every time.

Some of the water spilled and dribbled out the side of his mouth, trickling in rivulets down his chin and throat and how good it would be if that were blood instead...

He made a small noise, spluttered and coughed, choking on the water. "Shit," said Harry, "I'm so sorry." And then there was a concerned hand wiping at his face with a bit of cloth and he whimpered, leaning into the touch, nudging softly at that hand.

Harry's breath hitched.

Almost too easy.

How dare they confine him, try to chain him down. He would get Harry to release him and he'd reward him slow and sweet and then he'd _kill them all_

_watch the flesh peel from his muscles and tendons and bones and the blood will splatter on the floor and stain the walls the carpet the walls all red_

He made soft pain noises, his entire body trembling.

"It'll be okay, Draco," Harry soothed. "Everything will be all right."

* * *

Before Harry could take Ginny out to dinner, it was Draco who had to be fed. Harry had volunteered for the job; Draco had responded so well to him, before, and he was Harry's responsibility, after all.

Under no circumstances was he to be released from his chains, Hermione had said. There really was no telling what he could do, in such a state.

So there Harry was, standing outside the locked door with the biggest bowl of barely-cooked red meat that he could ever imagine himself holding. Taking a deep breath, he unlocked it and made his way in.

Draco was just where he had last left him, of course, chained and miserable on the bed.

"Harry..." Draco said, giving Harry a look that he was sure was, by definition, Bedroom Eyes.

Harry suppressed the disturbed shiver and sat down in the chair he had pulled up near the bed.

"I brought you food," he told him, and the blonde nodded, dark eyes limpid. He looked fragile, almost, and Harry felt a twinge of tenderness. It was disturbing because it was Malfoy, and Malfoy never incited such twinges in him – bitterness and resentment and annoyance and prickliness, yes, but tenderness- that was too weird. He stabbed a piece of meat with the fork and brought it to Draco's lips.

And then Malfoy suddenly hissed in pain as his lip began to burn, the flesh smoking and smelling sickly-sweet.

Harry gasped and cursed and threw the fork to the floor. "Oh god, I didn't think, I'm so sorry!"

Silverware. He had just grabbed the fork from the kitchen cabinet without thinking, because it had looked shiny and new. He didn't think to remember that Draco had been using non-silver cutlery up until now.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," Harry apologised profusely. "So, so sorry." He couldn't help but look at the slowly-healing burn on the blonde's lip, wishing there were a way he could soothe away the hurt.

Draco whimpered softly. Harry resisted the urge to stroke his hair.

"Shh, shh, I'm so sorry, here, eat this, it'll make you feel better." He reached into the bowl without thinking and picked up a piece of meat, pressing it to that pink mouth. By the time he did think, it was too late, as he looked at the mouth uneasily and he prayed that the werewolf wouldn't bite the hand that fed him.

One could hope. In God we trust.

Draco took it from him carefully – not even nicking him with his teeth. Harry shivered at the delicate scrape of white teeth against his fingers, his adrenaline spiking with the realisation that Malfoy, being Malfoy, could revoke his unspoken promise at any moment. He watched, fascinated, at the powerful working of the jaws, chewing rapidly, at the twitching of muscles in that pale throat, swallowing; the blonde making small noises of pleasure all the while.

And then Draco licked him.

Harry inhaled sharply.

It was a benign move, as harmless as a garden snake – a quick flickering of red tongue on his fingertips, wet and soft, lapping up the residue of blood and grease. He was just a puppy, really. One that depended on Harry.

"Good boy," Harry murmured, picking up the next piece of meat.

It was just like feeding a pet, his brain registered fuzzily. The meat disappeared so gracefully down the flute of the blonde's throat, and those small noises of satisfaction were almost...cute. Endearing, in a way. Harry felt warm with the emotion. He let him lap gently at his hand, even as that soft, wet tongue slid down the length of his fingers, licking at the sensitive skin between them. It tickled.

Draco would bite anybody other than him, Harry was sure. "What a good, good boy you are," Harry encouraged softly.

Malfoy seemed lost in the pleasure of eating. He chewed with his eyes closed, relishing the taste of meat and blood, licked at Harry's fingers with gentle almost-desperation. He whimpered softly when they were withdrawn from his mouth.

The meat disappeared quickly, swallowed up in ravenous bites and soft noises. He pressed his hand to Draco's mouth, let him lick all of it, tongue running over the lines of his palm, between his fingers, determined to get every last bit of blood. That pink mouth opened willingly for his fingers and drew them inside, licking, sucking. He marvelled at the easy way the werewolf let him slide his fingers inside his mouth, past the pricking of sharp canines, sucking contentedly.

Draco opened his eyes now and looked at him, his eyes wide and grey and playful and still hungry. Harry felt a thrill frisson down his spine.

Draco's eyes never left his as he slid his fingers in and out, fascinated by the soft, wet slide of them, shiny and slick with saliva. Dimly, he noted the blood rushing in his ears. On the withdraw, Draco caught his fingertips between his teeth, nipped at them lightly before releasing them with one last, apologetic lick.

That red tongue darted out, swept across those soft lips. Harry stared.

It was then that the thought occurred to him that people didn't get painfully hard from feeding their puppies, unless they were horrible perverts.

Harry _knew_ he wasn't a horrible pervert.

It had to be the pheromones thing. The potion had to be wearing off.

Harry stood up quickly, holding the bowl over his lap. "Have to...go now..." he managed, and turned and almost ran into Ron at the door, who had come to relieve him of his shift.

"Eager for your date, are you?" Ron asked. Harry just made a noise and scurried into his room, slamming the door.

* * *

Harry paced in his room, knowing that he should change and get ready but somehow unable to force himself to do it. It didn't help matters that he was currently sporting an erection the size of Uganda.

He sat down hard on the bed, let out a low moan and put his face in his hands.

It wasn't right. And moreover, more importantly, it wasn't his fault. And even more importantly than that, he was not, ever, he gritted his teeth, never ever, not ever going to masturbate to the idea of Malfoy _sucking_ on _anything. _He was a good guy, a strong man, determined. He was Harry Potter.

Harry Potter wasn't like that.

And he certainly wasn't going to think about how Draco's mouth had been so soft, his tongue so wet, the soft slide of it fascinating and hot

Harry punched the wall. And then promptly swore as the pain shot up his knuckles and up the length of his hand. It felt righteous and deserved and helped him to concentrate on a different ache than the one in his trousers.

He needed a cold shower and so he took one, setting the water so cold that it felt like spiny needles of ice piercing his skin. He gritted his teeth and accepted his punishment bravely, the way he accepted most things, his whole body shivering.

_Ginny,_ he reminded himself, _Ginny Ginny Ginny. _He loved her, and she was completely separate from this mess, and he loved her for that. She was sweet, she was _pure_, she deserved better. He scrubbed himself hard with the soap, nails dragging light red marks into wet skin, and the more miserable he felt, the more in control he knew he was.

After the shower things seemed brighter, better, if a bit colder and wetter. He pulled on the outfit he had carefully selected for the evening, which he didn't think was half bad, never mind what Malfoy might have said about it. Hell, Malfoy would have probably berated him for it for hours, he never knew when to shut his mouth. Malfoy would have insulted his taste, insulted his eyesight, and probably threatened to be sick. The more Harry thought about it the more he doubted his appearance, and when he stood in front of the mirror and his reflection said, "Hey there, tiger, you're looking pretty all right," Harry had to fight the Malfoy-ian urge to scream back, '_just_ all right?'

And so he'd "borrowed" some of Malfoy's clothes instead, partly because Harry wanted to spite him, and partly because he really needed to look nice on his date, nice and unmockable. And partly because Harry really wanted to spite him.

But Malfoy's clothes were much nicer, after all, and bound to be more fashionable, since the poncey git actually cared about things like that, even if the trousers were just a bit on the tight side. Of course Harry should have asked permission before simply helping himself to Malfoy's designer wardrobe and in fact, he would have, but unfortunately, he couldn't.

That creature in the other room wasn't Malfoy, even if it contorted Malfoy's face and used Malfoy's voice to call his name. It wasn't Draco, who was annoying and competitive and hateful; it was the very thing that Draco had been afraid of, this him that wasn't him.

It was a creature, an animal, one willing to say anything, do anything, to satisfy its own primal hungers. It had basic, disgusting lusts. It emitted pheromones in order to better fulfil those lusts, and that was how prey got caught – by falling into that simple trap of thinking it was something real, something human.

It hadn't just been Harry, after all, Hermione was attracted to him, too, just as any girl would be, surely, Malfoy had always thought that he was _pretty_, even though Harry could never really grasp that concept himself. Girls liked that pretty boy type, didn't they? And he must have looked girlish enough for even Ron, best mate and upstanding beacon of heterosexuality – so this _thing_, it affected everybody. Anybody in that situation would have lost control of their treacherous bodies, would have had purely physical reactions; the flashing heat of the idea that that lithe body was pinned down like something on display, theirs for the taking.

But Malfoy didn't want them, did he, no, he had just wanted Harry, had called for Harry, had said his name just so, Harry, Harry, _Harry_ – in that pleading way, that was almost begging more than anything, and then the way he had _licked _

"Oh, come _on_!" Harry shouted down to his traitorous, overly-hormonal body, glaring at a certain part of his anatomy in particular. "Honestly?"

Gritting his teeth, he stomped downstairs and into the parlour, where vials of potion remained, gleaming on the table. He downed one quickly, gulping it down, welcoming the vile, bitter, acrid taste, the burn in his throat, the way it made his face screw up in disgust and caused an almost immediate desire to gag. His erection wilted, and he breathed a sigh of immense relief.

"Harry..." came a sweet, familiar voice, "is that you? What are you doing?"

He turned to see Ginny, framed by late afternoon light, the warm gold caressing the creaminess of her skin, the vibrant redness of her hair. She was a vision; the kind of exquisite beauty that is usually accompanied by sudden slow-motion and a popular romantic song mysteriously beginning to play in the background. She wore a white dress that bared the smooth, rounded curves of her shoulders, one that sloped down in front to tastefully display a subtle peek of cleavage. Her makeup was done, lips pink, thick lashes darkened and big brown eyes lined. Harry had never seen her with makeup before – how could he have ever missed the fact that she was quite stunning? For one moment, Harry saw himself in a future where he was looking down rows upon rows of pews, rows and rows of smiling faces, down a burgundy carpet strewn with petals, and there she was waiting for him, as radiant as she was now, walking towards him with steps timed to organ music. That was his, his life if he wanted it.

He stepped forward and took Ginny by her soft, white hand.

"Nothing," he said. "Absolutely nothing." He wasn't much of a liar when it came to these things; times like these he wished he were more skilled in Occlumency. Hermione could nearly almost always tell when he was lying, and maybe this was a trait that all women shared...Ginny looked at him strangely and so he kissed the suspicion off her face, her soft mouth parting easily under his.

When she pulled away she was grinning at him, and Harry congratulated himself on sheer tactical brilliance.

"What's that you've got? Afraid for tonight?" she teased, indicating the empty bottle.

Harry coughed. He made some sort of awkward gesture that he hoped would be wilfully misinterpreted as This Is My Awkward Boyfriend, Isn't He Cute and not as My Boyfriend Was Just Drinking an Anti-Boner Potion Because the Skinny Blond on the Bed Upstairs Makes Him Feel All Funny Inside. Ginny, of course, did not in any way suspect the latter, and she never would, if Harry had anything to say about it.

"Don't worry, Harry," Ginny smiled, "I promise not to let you do anything to me that I don't want to let you do to me."

"I'll be on my best behaviour," Harry said, solemnly. Ginny deserved this, a night away from the stresses of home, where there would be dinner and lights and happy, smiling people, away from all this death, these broken things.

She was so beautiful, smiling up at him, ready for a night of fun, her eyes warm and bright. He didn't know why he suddenly felt depressed, even if it only lasted a moment.

"Well?" she prompted. "Are you ready? Shall we go?"

"Yeah," said Harry, taking her arm in his, the way he was supposed to, the way all good, proper boyfriends do. "I'm ready."

* * *

The Muggle cinema was in London, right in the heart of town. Harry had actually never been, and he had never been to the restaurant Ginny had selected, either. When he looked at her smile, he wondered about all the places she had been and he hadn't, all the things she had done without him ever noticing, the same way she had grown up beautiful, under his radar.

Even in Muggle London, he was stopped from time to time by strangers in the street, people thanking him or asking for his autograph or both, albeit very discreetly. ("Long time no see, Harry! Thanks for all the fish!" and "Mr. Potter, would you mind signing this petition for the Save the Children and Everybody Else As Well Fund?") It wasn't nearly as bad as when he had been shopping with Malfoy in Diagon Alley, of course. Had that only been a couple of weeks ago? Time passed so strangely, slowing and speeding, in bursts of darkness, in happy moments and in funerals, in phases of the moon.

Ginny had chosen the movie Armageddon. She was more impressed with the fact that they managed to find enough attractive giants to work together ("Imagine that! I did not know that giants could even be that good-looking!") than the actual plot of the film itself. "Muggles are silly, aren't they?" she commented, "I mean, really. How can you take this seriously? Do they really believe the world will be destroyed by a giant rock?"

Harry tactfully failed to point out how the world was almost destroyed by a horrifying snake-man.

During the film, Ginny kept pressing closer and closer, causing Harry to worry if she had enough room, and perhaps the bloke next to her smelled bad or was one of those horrible pushy people who always invaded other people's personal space. Harry had to put the armrest up and keep scooting over to make sure she was comfortable. Finally, when Harry had nowhere else to move, squashed against the armrest on the other side of him, Ginny stopped fidgeting. It was a good thing, too, because if he had moved over any more he would be invading the space of the person next to them. Ginny snuggled up against him and put a hand in his lap and was most likely groping for the popcorn, so Harry gave her the tub to hold. By the end of the movie, he reached over and took her hand and squeezed it. He couldn't see her face in the darkness of the theatre, but he knew she looked lovely, and he was very happy.

They had a nice time.

Afterwards, they walked to the restaurant. Hand in hand they strolled down the streets, peering into shop windows while Ginny admired dresses. From time to time he would indulge her and she would run into little boutique shops, fingering all the clothes on their hangers while the shopkeep would glare at them and wonder if they were going to buy anything.

"Oh!" Ginny would say. "This is cute. But is it a skirt or a shirt?"

Disturbingly, Harry could picture Malfoy asking the exact same thing.

"A skirt that is also a pair of shorts? Harry, Muggle clothing is weird."

It was nothing like shopping with Malfoy had been, Ginny was a pleasure to be around, didn't take nearly as long, and gave nobody a headache. And when Harry went to pay for her pretty dresses, she didn't make a scene and storm out of the shop, instead she kissed him and hugged him and thanked him over and over again.

Er, not that he had wanted Malfoy to kiss OR hug him, but a little gratitude would have been nice.

The place they went to was a Thai restaurant, with random elephants strewn about the place, and cluttered decor, strewn about with young couples about their age. The lighting was ambient, a bit orange-red. It clashed with Ginny's hair. Harry had never had Thai food before, and he feared that it would clash with his digestive tract. It wouldn't be too much of a date, then.

It was romantic and just this side of cheesy – not as bad as Madam Puddifoot's on Valentine's Day, but definitely to Ginny's taste. The booth they sat in was maroon velvet, for one. And over the sound system, they played current pop ballads; most of which were as unfamiliar to Harry as wizarding music had once been. It wasn't like he ever spent a lot of time listening to the radio.

It felt normal, and that was nice. Very nice.

The waiter was Muggle, for sure, dressed in overly tight black pants and with carefully styled hair and—was that eyeliner? He looked like he hated his job. He looked just about their age, maybe even a bit younger, who could really tell? It was probably a part-time job, making some pocket change for fun or saving up for university, and maybe he had a girlfriend, too, whom he took out to dinner and a film. When he looked at them, he probably thought that they were students just like him, and he was wholly uninterested in who Harry was, just another unremarkable guy with glasses, out for a date with his girlfriend.

"May I take your order, _Sir_?" he asked. Harry didn't know how to feel about being addressed as 'Sir,' even if the tone was sarcastic. It still made him think of all the times that people his own age and people far older than him had looked up to him, before, how even now, they treated him with a sort of awe. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and squinted at the menu, although squinting didn't let him read Thai any better.

He was at a bit of loss. He had never been in a Thai restaurant before – he hadn't known to expect so many elephants. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time that he was even in a Muggle restaurant, if ever – the Dursleys had certainly never taken him with them when they went out to eat, and it was pretty sad when the best restaurant he could think of was McDonald's.

"So," he said, "how should we go about this?" He tried to sound casual about it. He thought he was doing a rather admirable job.

"Well," said Ginny, "I rather thought that we'd go on a couple of dates, and after a while of doing so, you'd propose, and then we'd spend some period in engagement eventually resulting in marriage, wait a year or two, and then I'll have us some babies. One or two to start with, but I hope to one day have, oh, I don't know, at least half a dozen or so. Seven _is_ a lucky number, you know."

Harry choked, which was probably not the most casual reaction.

"No pressure or anything," Ginny said solemnly.

"I can come back later," the waiter offered, his growing annoyance evident in his voice, "Or perhaps you'd like to order, I don't know, sometime tonight, maybe? I have to get home by 11, you know."

Harry got the distinct feeling of being looked down upon – whatever happened to the customer is always right?

Ginny said, "I'll have number 78 and he'll have number 31, thanks." She was a hero. She was a saint. She was observant enough to notice that the menu had had numbers next to all the unpronounceable names. Harry didn't deserve her.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Whatever," said the waiter, who rolled his eyes and took their menus and left. Harry gave Ginny a grateful look. He really did love her, he thought, all obstacles aside.

He looked around, at the other tables, at the other couples – in all honesty, he wasn't quite sure what people exactly _did_ in restaurants, on dates. The couples seemed very absorbed in each other. It was only right, Harry thought. That was how couples should be.

"Harry?" Ginny said. "Is everything all right? You seem a tad distracted."

Harry coughed. "Of course everything's all right Ginny – it's wonderful, just wonderful." He sneaked another glance at the table next to them – they were holding hands. He reached out and hurriedly took Ginny's hand, almost upsetting the small vase in the middle of the table to do it. Ginny smiled. Harry smiled back. He felt like he was cheating on an exam, or something.

The elephants looked rather judgmental.

"So," Harry said, clearing his throat, "how are...things?"

"Things are good," said Ginny, smiling indulgently.

"That's good," Harry said.

They were both silent for a moment. Harry glanced around quickly, again – no one else seemed to be having this sort of trouble. Surely everybody was staring at them.

"Harry," Ginny said, giving a squeeze to his hand. "You don't have to be so nervous, you know. I know you're worried about how everything is at home, but we need this, too – you need this. You owe it to yourself to relax."

Harry nodded. Right, relax. Now if he could only convince the rest of him to do that. He wanted to ask her, am I doing this right? Am I making you happy enough? Or did he broadcast weird to the people around him, did it hang around him like some sort of _smell – _Malfoy had said that he could smell him, after all, and- no, no thoughts about Malfoy tonight. Absolutely none. This was his and Ginny's special time together.

He didn't notice that he was clutching Ginny's hand a little too hard until she winced.

"Oh! Sorry, Ginny," he said quickly and immediately pulled his hand away. His palm had gotten all sweaty, and that couldn't have been pleasant. He wiped it rapidly on his pant leg. "I guess I am a bit tense, after all."

"I don't blame you," Ginny said, and Harry knew exactly who she did blame – and she was probably right. The look on his face probably told her that he was thinking the same thing. "But we're not talking about that tonight. We're supposed to be having fun, right?"

"Are we having fun yet?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Ginny said, and gave him a smile, and she was so very pretty, and the candlelight made her hair all warm like sunshine, and Harry wanted to be normal for her so he snuck a look around, again.

"Do you recognise somebody, Harry?" Ginny asked, and perhaps craning his neck around like that hadn't been as surreptitious as he'd thought.

"Uh, no," Harry said, "I've just got, uh...a..a cramp in my neck...from sleeping poorly." He made a great big show of rolling his head back and forth, looking from side to side, as if warming up for morning calisthenics.

"I noticed," Ginny said, latching onto something else, the admission that he hadn't been sleeping well, and that much was true. She looked worried for him, and there was something else other than just concern in her eyes, and she was looking at him like trying to look for something in his face; it made Harry want to squirm. What was she looking at? The bags under his eyes? He didn't think he had any. Did he have something on his face? But they hadn't even gotten their food yet. Or, horror of horrors, maybe she was casting some sort of wandless, wordless spell that would show if your boyfriend was somehow abnormal and the word W E I R D had just appeared in magical red ink across his forehead. No, all over his face.

Okay, clearly wearing Malfoy's pants was making him a paranoid crazy person.

Harry loosened the collar of his shirt in case that had anything to do with it, maybe it was cutting off the circulation to his brain. He regained his composure and said, "It's nothing to worry about, Ginny."

"Hm," Ginny said, noncommittally, and then, in a voice that was a little more unsure, "you know you can talk to me about anything, right, Harry?"

"Of course I do," Harry said, and knowing that Ginny could use some comfort right now (not to mention that the couple at Table 3 had pushed their chairs together) he grabbed his chair and scooted closer to her.

The chair scraped and squeaked and groaned as it dragged across the floor, causing the whole restaurant to suddenly look at them.

Harry flushed in humiliation. Ginny patted his hand consolingly, but he could tell she was embarrassed too.

"Your food, _Sir,"_ said their waiter sarcastically, placing the plates down in front of them, "and if you would please refrain from attempting to remove the varnish from our hardwood floor, both the management and our other patrons would thank you."

"S-sorry," Harry stammered.

The waiter rolled his eyes. "Enjoy your meal," he said, and Harry didn't think that those words could ever be used as an insult, but clearly he hadn't ticked off enough wait staff in his life.

The food, at least, was delicious, even if after Harry's first bite he choked and gasped out, "Water! Water!" and cried a little. When they started eating, things seemed to calm down a bit and they could actually talk, for once. Choosing Muggle date activities was an excellent idea, and he complimented Ginny on her decision.

"It'll be nice, to have something to tell Mum about." Ginny sipped at her float. "I'm always looking for new things to tell her. She's not too interested in Quidditch, you know, and there's only so much I can take of Home Quilting Weekly before wanting to stab my own eyes out with my needles. "

Harry laughed. This was good, this was easy. It wasn't easy knowing that Ginny was always looking for things to talk to her mum about to keep her mind occupied, babbling away in endless monologue, never sure if Mrs. Weasley was actually listening to her or not. Ginny seemed excited tonight, despite everything, so Harry let her excitement infect him, too, concentrated on the sparkle in her eyes, the sometimes soft brush of her arm against his.

Ginny was full of enthusiasm and curiosity for the Muggle world, but her areas of interest didn't quite match those of her father. Muggle clothing, for example, ("How do you tell if it's a shirt or a skirt?"), certain types of girl's makeup for another, a subject that was as foreign to Harry as it was to her ("Why would they flavour lipgloss if it weren't meant to be eaten?"), and cars ("So they can go up to 200 kilometres per hour, but they only run on _roads?_ And they sometimes get caught in _jams?_ What sort of jam – strawberry or raspberry or...?").

Harry was happy to listen to her talk. She seemed so full of life. On the subject of Muggle music, she actually knew even more than Harry; she attributed it to one of her friends. She wouldn't say which one, however, and he dropped the subject because it wasn't worth pursuing, not on a beautiful night like this, yet he couldn't help wondering if maybe this friend was male, and perhaps more than a friend.

Ginny was talking about the current song playing in the background, apparently sung by a group of blokes even though they sounded like girls: "_I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish, I'll be your fantasy, I'll be your hope, I'll be your love, I'll be everything that you need..._"

"This song actually sounds like a cover of that Wyrd Sisters' song," Ginny suggested. "You know, the one that's called, oh, what was it – 'Chew me, Mad Bee, Creepy.'

This was it. They were normal, and right, and good.

He couldn't imagine taking Malfoy here. He'd probably boss everybody around and try to order an entree with a tall glass of Muggle blood or something, or whatever it was ex-Death Eaters did. Or he'd be annoying and flirt with the wait staff and send his dish back to the kitchen if it weren't done to his finicky idea of perfection, without a care for how he was embarrassing Harry and-

Harry caught himself. Why would he ever consider Malfoy in a situation like this?

He looked around quickly, almost guiltily, as if his errant thoughts would be visible on his face. The other couples around them continued on with their dinners and conversations, blithely.

"Excuse me, I have to go to the loo," he said, but then when he got up Ginny gave a rather feminine little gasp.

Harry looked down to see if he had spilled any curry on himself in an embarrassing area, and was rewarded with a different kind of embarrassment altogether – one that would certainly damage any feminine sensibilities.

Between all the scooting around, and the fact that Malfoy's pants were fitted to Malfoy, and not Harry, he had somehow managed to bunch the material up in a central area, giving the appearance that either he was a sex-starved teenager, or that he had a real hard-on for curry. A real, prominent hard-on for curry.

Harry quickly sat down, flushing. Ginny was looking at him with a definite gleam in her eye and intense interest, which only wavered a little when Harry uttered, "Damn it Malfoy and your too-tight pants!"

"Uh, it's not you," Harry told her, immediately.

"_What_," Ginny said, and the gleam in her eye was turning into more of a glare.

Realising how that had sounded, Harry quickly amended, "I mean, it's not what you think." He wilted a bit under her stare, and continued helplessly, "Er, not that I don't find you very sexy and all, and you know, you really do, um, turn me on, and everything, but, uh, I don't have a..." He could feel his blush get hotter. "I mean, I'm not...It's really not what it looks like," he finished, and wished somehow that saving the world automatically imbued one with the magical ability to talk to girls.

"It's just that I've gotten into Malfoy's pants," Harry explained. "I mean...!" Oh, God, he was hopeless.

"_WHAT," _said Ginny again, but even scarier this time.

"It's these trousers," Harry made a weak, helpless gesture and begged for understanding with his eyes. Ginny had always liked his eyes, she said so, them being green and all. "The fit is all wrong and the fabric is bunched up and they're not mine, I just borrowed them –"

"Oh," Ginny said, and sounded relieved and disappointed all at once. But then she brightened up a little bit. "I suppose," she said, smiling, "we'll just have to get them off of you then."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "You're right. I mean, they can't look very good if they don't fit me very well, right?"

Ginny let out a frustrated sigh. "_Harry,"_ she said.

"What?" Harry asked. It was silly, that he ever felt like he should care about what Malfoy might have said about his choice in attire; Ginny didn't care about things like that, Ginny liked him for who he was, supposed bad taste and all. "I think people should comfortable in their own clothes and I...I like my pants," he declared, defiantly. It felt good. People were right when they said that the truth shall set you free.

"Oh, _Harry_," Ginny said, and sighed again.

"What is it, Ginny?" Harry asked.

"Nevermind," she huffed, and poked at her food. He would never be able to suss out girls.

"Is...is everything all right?" he asked hesitantly.

"It's fine," she said.

"Oh, all right then," said Harry, unsure what else to say. He went back to eating, instead.

After several moments of eating he felt the warm touch of Ginny's hand on his thigh. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and she looked beautiful in the candlelight. She was pretty, and she was vibrant, everything about her was perfect and normal and right. They belonged together. And just as he was about to tell her how much he loved her, she slipped her hand in between his legs and rubbed.

Harry choked on his food, spluttered, and started coughing.

"Oh Merlin, Harry!" Ginny cried, hurriedly patting his back, "Harry, are you okay?"

"'m fine," Harry wheezed, tears in his eyes and spicy food making his throat and his airway burn as he struggled to breathe.

"I'm sorry," she said, in a small voice, and bit her lip, looking so disappointed and unhappy that Harry felt bad, and thought that he should do something about it, but not knowing what.

Immediately his hand shot out to grab hers. Unfortunately he moved just a bit too quickly and ended up upsetting her drink all over the table, and all over Ginny's lap.

Ginny yelped, and instinctively jumped up, but it was too late, the damage was done.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Harry said, and this was disastrous, and he wished he could use magic to clean her up only he couldn't, and when he reached for a napkin he couldn't find one and grabbed the edge of the tablecloth instead, only while he was helping Ginny mop herself up he pulled a bit too hard and his drink tipped over onto all their food and onto him, and now they were both wet and a mess and dinner was ruined.

The whole restaurant was looking at them. Their waiter was having conniptions. Ginny looked at him. Harry was afraid that she was going to cry, because he had gone and spoiled everything on their magical evening out.

Instead, she began to laugh. And then Harry laughed too.

"This is ridiculous," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed. He made one last pathetic attempt to dab at her dress with the edge of a soggy tablecloth.

"Forget it, Harry," she said, "Do you want to dance?"

Harry opened his mouth to tell her that he had two left feet and couldn't dance if saving the world depended on it, but shut it, smiled, and nodded instead.

Everybody was staring at them as they took the dance floor, and everybody who had already been dancing gave them a wide berth, lest they get pink drink dripped on them or maybe somehow slip in one of the little puddles that got left behind and end up breaking their neck.

_I don't want to wait, for our lives to be over, I want to know right now what will it be...I don't want to wait, for our lives to be over, will it be yes or will it be...sorry?_ sang the intercom.

This music was really rather ridiculous, Harry thought, like it belonged as the theme song to some sort of teen drama show. But he found it hard to care. With his arms around Ginny even the people staring at him were a little easier to ignore, and she smelled so pretty, like something floral along mingled with the fruity smell of the spilled drinks, her hair soft against his cheek. He was wet and sticky and his clothes were sticking to his skin and none of that mattered.

Another song played over the intercom, he held Ginny closer, and together they swayed. She pressed a soft kiss to his neck, and her chest pressed into his. The disco ball in the middle of the dance floor covered the both of them in jewelled patches of light and colour.

Ginny sang softly along, "Dreams last for so long, even after you're gone...I know, you love me, and soon you will see, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you."

And it was right then, at what was possibly one of the most romantic moments in Harry's life, that someone screamed.

There was a bang, followed by a repeated _thud thud thud _at the window.

"Oh God!" a girl cried. "Somebody get help! Call 999!"

"Call animal control!" demanded her date. "That thing is deranged!"

Harry and Ginny turned their heads to see Pigwidgeon, the itty bitty little scops owl, banging against the large glass window of the establishment as if he intended to knock it down through sheer owlish willpower alone. It looked like someone wearing an Invisibility Cloak was playing squash with a very furry ball.

As Harry looked on, horrified, Pig found the door, which had been propped open to let the air in and no one had thought to close it. The little owl flew into the restaurant, hooting with glee at finding its destination, flight pattern its usual overexcited, uncoordinated zig-zag. He swooped low over tables, causing panic and mayhem as patrons jumped up from their seats, terrified of possible owl droppings in their food or on their fancy clothes. Girlish squeals filled the air, ladies covering their hair, men attempting to swat it or diving under tables or hiding behind their girlfriends. For those with oclophobia, and especially for those who were familiar with the Hitchcock classic "The Birds," it was a nightmare, as Pig, confused by the unusual volume of noise and chaos, bounced from table to table, upsetting dishes of pad thai and curry and pad see yew, spilling bowls of tom yum soup. His wings flapped in a waiter's face, causing the waiter to stumble and trip and completely spill the tray he was carrying, sending the dishes crashing to the floor, food and all.

Harry chased after Pig, of course, figuring that he could catch it with his Seeker reflexes, saying, "sorry! Sorry!" and "oops, watch out, sorry!" to the other patrons all the while as he bumped into them or jumped over the ones on the floor. However, it was Ginny who saved the day by calling "_Pigwidgeon_!" and the diminutive owl, recognising her voice, flew straight into her open arms – quite literally, as he smacked into her chest.

"Oof," said Ginny, "what's this?"

"GET OUT!" screamed their dickhead waiter, joined in by the maître d', "YOU ARE HEREBY BANNED FROM THIS ESTABLISHMENT."

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Harry noted that their waiter's hair was now slicked down with tom kha gai soup, his eyeliner runny and streaked down his face. Ginny unfurled the Owl and read:

_HARRY COME BACK IMEDIATELY! EMRGENCY! MALFOY IS-!_

The rest of the message was completely illegible. It looked like someone had spilled ink on it in their haste to write the message and send it out.

"All right, Malfoy, now you're just cock-blocking me," she muttered.

"What was that?" Harry asked, pulling a noodle out of his hair.

"Nothing," Ginny said, sighing, "We have to get back."

"Yeah, right away," Harry agreed, taking her hand and pulling her out of the restaurant. The waiter gave them evils until he couldn't see them anymore.

"AND STAY OUT!" shouted the waiter from the doorway, as if he'd been waiting all his waiterly career for the opportunity to say that. He slammed the door dramatically behind them. He really was a dickhead.

It wasn't too bad, Harry thought later, once they were in the dark alley so that they could Apparate. Despite the fact that they had just been kicked out of the restaurant, Harry had managed to survive the restaurant portion of a date without getting any pitchers of water upended on him. He considered it an admirable success.

All things aside, Harry thought, it was probably the best date he had ever had.

* * *

_Author's Note: if you enjoyed this chapter, you have my little sister to thank, because she was the one who kick-started me on a scene I've been stuck on for a year. Thank you Monica!_


	6. There's a Bad Moon on the Rise

-+-

**Chapter Six: There's a Bad Moon on the Rise**

-+-

The air was eerily calm when Harry and Ginny arrived outside the Burrow, the near-full moon high in the sky. They drew their wands and expected the worst; the gruesome images flooded Harry's mind, each gory detail horribly, graphically clear. _Mr. & Mrs Weasley slaughtered in their bed, the blood soaking into the sheets and dying them bright red, almost black with how much of it there is, George wouldn't even put up a fight, only too happy to go and Hermione and Ron with their throats torn open their blood pooling on the kitchen floor and the walls are splattered with red and I'm too late, I'm always too late --_

Ginny had just barely kept him kicking the door off its hinges.

Stealth. Right. They slowly pushed the door open, edging their way in carefully, mindful that the slightest noise might give them away to a werewolf's extra-sharp senses. They held their breath, afraid to even exhale, braced for what it might mean, whether it meant they would get mauled by a werewolf or be able to breathe in the scent of death, the heavy, pungent smell of hot blood—

The lights were on in the kitchen. And when they got there, there sat Ron and Hermione, completely and wholly unharmed, having a nice hot cuppa with Ron's mum. _With his mum._

"Oh, hello," Mrs. Weasley said pleasantly. "Back from your little date so early?"

Ginny gaped.

"Oh, my, Ginny – what happened to your new dress?" Mrs. Weasley asked, shocked. "And it was white, too! Close your mouth, dear, that's not ladylike."

"What is the meaning of this," Harry demanded, slamming the crumpled bit of parchment down on the kitchen table. Ron took it and uncrumpled it, Ron, who was completely whole and not bleeding and not ripped into tiny little pieces. Harry could have hit something, Harry could have hugged him.

"Malfoy is _sick_! Sick, sick, sick!" Ron emphasised.

"Yes, we know that already," Ginny snapped. "Why did you call us home?!"

"No," said Ron. "I mean, that's what I wrote on the Owl before ink got spilled all over it."

"And just _why_," Ginny growled, using her scary voice again, "would you send out a misleading and completely unreadable Owl with ink all over it!"

"You could _kind of _ read it," Ron said, squinting and rubbing his finger on the parchment, "See? S-I-C-K...."

"He's sick?" Harry asked. "What's wrong with him? Is he all right? Is he contagious? This doesn't make sense--"

"It's all right, Harry, it just appears to be a high fever," Hermione cut in, "Ron was worried because he's looking very ill—"

"A _fever_?" Ginny said. "That's _it?_ Really, it couldn't have waited until we actually got home from our _date?" _

"Hey," Ron said, sniffing the air, "something smells delicious." His face looked bright and eager. "Did you bring home one of those, you know...what do you call them? Doggy bags?"

"_No," _Ginny snarled. Harry stepped away from her, he was learning to recognise a dangerous righteous rage when he saw one. "You...you..._bloody idiot_!"

"Ginny dear," Mrs. Weasley said, "there's no reason to talk to your brother like that."

Ginny took a deep breath and Harry could see that she was fighting the urge to scream.

"We came straight home from the restaurant, didn't even take time to clean up even though it takes two seconds to cast a Cleaning charm, we're covered in coconut chicken soup and rice noodles and fruit cocktail juice and we ran in here expecting to find you all _dead_ and you're telling me that Malfoy. Has. A. _Fever._"

"Um, yeah," Ron said. "Look, maybe I overreacted a little –"

"RON!" Ginny hissed. "I have _crushed peanuts_ in my _hair_!"

"Sorry," Ron winced. "But I really was worried because Malfoy is really—"

"ARGH!" Ginny screamed in frustration, taking her wand and casting _Scourgify _on herself with such fierce intent behind it that it was a wonder that her dress didn't rip in two. "If anybody needs me, I'll be in the bath!" She stormed out of the room and stomped up the stairs.

"She didn't let me finish," Ron said, "Hermione was the one who told me I should Owl you."

"Yes," Hermione said, smoothing out the Owl on the table, "but I only meant that you should let Harry know about Malfoy's condition and that he shouldn't stay out too late. I never meant for you to put quite so many exclamation marks. And this spelling is atrocious."

"Well, maybe I did overreact just a tiny bit. But it was my watch and I didn't know what else to do and I knew that if Harry came home and Malfoy was _dead_ he'd never—"

"Wait, what?" Harry said. "Just how sick is he?"

"It's nothing to panic about," Hermione said in calm, even, tones, and Harry thought that she would have made a good doctor. Or a mediwitch, should she want to be one. "Only...only his fever _is _rather high, and he won't let anybody near him...Not even George or Mrs. Weasley can get near him."

"It's true," Mrs. Weasley said, "the poor thing is feverish and we can't even get close enough to convince him to take in any fluids or medicine."

"_And _you said there was a risk of seizures or brain damage," Ron accused Hermione. "Why don't you tell Harry about that!"

"What?!" Harry exclaimed, throat tight.

"Oh, Ron, I said there was a _possibility_ _if_ his fever got any higher – and besides, that's only the human reaction, I don't know how his lycanthropic body would react to it –"

"But still," Ron insisted, "I would have gotten into a lot of trouble if you had come home to find out that I let Malfoy's brains fry."

"I'm...I'm glad you told me, Ron," Harry said.

"No problem, mate," Ron said with the self-contented grin of someone who knows he has done the right thing all along. He clapped Harry on his back, and then picked a noodle off Harry's shoulder. He looked at it contemplatively.

"Ron, don't," Hermione warned.

"All this excitement has made me rather peckish," Ron said. Hermione slapped the noodle out of his hand.

"I'll make food," Mrs. Weasley volunteered happily. "Harry, dear, why don't you go check on Draco?"

-+-

The moon looked almost oppressive through the windows, cold and silvery and large in the dark sky, following Harry as he walked down the hallway. He knew that it was a fantastically bad idea. He didn't need anyone else judging him, telling him what he already knew.

When he got to the door, he paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other balancing his tray of medicines and ice water. It was his obligation. His duty. Draco hadn't even let George touch him, after all; Harry was the only one who could get through. Moments slithered by while Harry stood just outside the room, feeling the cold glare of the moon on his back. Beads of condensation formed on the pitcher of ice water, collecting together and dripping down like sweat on cold glass skin. Malfoy needed him. The ice was melting.

He didn't know how long he might have stood there if he hadn't heard that breathy whimper that sounded suspiciously like his name.

He opened the door. "Malfoy?" he called, uncertainly. "Draco?" He shut the door behind him.

Malfoy looked much worse off than how Harry had left him. His clothes were rumpled, his hair pale blonde hair mussed, the strands tangled and some of them clinging in tendrils to his forehead, turned to a darker gold by sweat. His face was flushed, but his skin was pale, as pale as the moonlight streaming in through the open window. His eyes were squeezed shut tight against the silver light, as if it might blind him to look at it.

He made a keening sound from the bed, a high-pitched whine of distress, and he moved his body in an unfamiliar way, sinuous, graceful. Urgent.

"Hot...it's so hot..." Malfoy whined. The sweat beaded on his forehead looked like dew in the moonlight. "Harry...Harry, _help me."_

Harry could help, he _had _to, it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. A core temperature of 39 degrees Celsius, Hermione had said- that was dangerous. In any other circumstance, they would have taken him to the hospital. Then again, Malfoy was always a particular circumstance.

"It's all right," Harry said as he approached the bed, wary not to make any sudden movements, as if approaching a wild animal. As if any moment, Malfoy would break free and leap on him and maul him into little bloody bits. He almost expected it. But the chains held fast and Malfoy remained incapacitated. Harry set the tray down on the table next to the bed. "Drink this," he said, lifting the medicine phial up to Malfoy's lips, "it'll make you feel better."

Malfoy nodded quickly, lifted his head and licked his lips. There was no hesitation, no argument, and Harry was struck by the sudden realisation that Malfoy _trusted_ him. He could have fed him poison, the dark, silky liquid in the phial could have been poison.

It was a heady feeling.

Not that Harry could have ever, in a million years, done anything of the sort. Not _him – _not _the_ Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Hero, Gryffindor, and all-around do-gooder. And perhaps that was part of it, the expectation that Potter could never do anything underhanded; Malfoy might have done something like that, maybe, but not Harry. But then again, this _was_ Malfoy, who never trusted anybody, least of all Harry.

He watched the slight trickle of liquid out of the corner of Draco's mouth, a dark rivulet against a pale landscape. Without thinking, he reached forward and wiped it off with his thumb. Malfoy's tongue flicked out and licked the pad of Harry's thumb just as it passed over his lips, his eyes watching Harry the whole time. It made Harry's skin prickle and his stomach tighten; it shouldn't have, of course, Malfoy probably thought nothing of it – the gesture was puppyish, a canine display of affection.

It wasn't until Malfoy made a small, inquisitive sound that Harry realised that he had been staring at Malfoy's mouth. He snatched his hand away and rubbed it on the leg of his trousers.

"How is it?" Harry asked. "Is it any better?"

Malfoy shook his head, his hair rustling and tangling against the sheets. "It's hot," he shivered. Fever chills. The sheen of sweat on his skin almost looked like it glowing, somehow.

Harry soaked the towel in the freezing water, using it to make a cold compress. He pressed it against Draco's forehead, mopping some of the sweat off his brow. The water ran in rivulets down his skin, travelling the curve of his cheek and then just under his jaw, down the side of his pale throat, before soaking into the sheets below. Malfoy's breathing was ragged; a sigh that almost seemed like relief, but then a sharp inhale of breath, quickly forced out again. He was panting.

Harry tentatively put the back of his hand to Malfoy's forehead, the way that he had never done for anybody before, but he had always known that you were supposed to do. He could feel the intense heat of Malfoy's body even under the clamminess of wet skin, the way that heat seemed to seep out of him. He really was sick.

He mopped at Malfoy's forehead with the damp towel, but Malfoy kept on shivering, kept on panting, kept on twisting as if he wanted to get away even though Harry knew it had to feel good. "Shh, shh," he soothed, a little helplessly, not knowing what else to do other than wipe that soggy towel over his forehead and wish that damn medicine would work faster. He wiped the towel from forehead to temple, and then down one flushed cheek.

"Not enough," Malfoy whined, "... my body, my body is hot...my skin..."

"I don't know what else to do," Harry said, apologetically, and it was painful, almost, to see Malfoy like this. His eyes flicked down to Malfoy's shirt, crumpled and sticking to his skin with sweat, some parts of it almost transparent with the moisture. He took a deep breath and undid the first button.

Malfoy shuddered. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Harry, _please." _

Draco's voice was breathy and broken, and Harry's name was falling from those lips like a prayer, desperately.

"Shh...shhh..." Harry soothed. "I'll...I'll make it better, I promise."

He opened the blonde's shirt slowly, watching as smooth pale skin was exposed, button by button.

"No good," Draco muttered with frustration, straining against the chains as if he wanted to break free just so he could rip his shirt off. "No good, it's no good...it's useless...too hot..."

And that's when Harry got the idea to take the wet towel and run it down Draco's neck, from neck to sternum and then to the middle of his chest.

Draco hissed at the feeling, the wet and rough and cold touch, and the chill of the night air on wet skin. "Better," he breathed, and Harry nodded, dipped the cloth into the icy water and wrung it out, covered his hand with it like a glove and rubbed it over where the heart lay beating rapidly underneath.

It was strictly clinical. Medical and sterile, like cleaning out a wound, only thinking of wounds made Harry think of the injured, made him think dead bodies on flagstones and think funerals, think friends rising from their coffins and think of skin splitting open, unzipping to show deep dark red wet insides underneath. Draco's body, the thud it made when it hit the bathroom floor, how he had looked, lying in the pool of his own blood. Harry could see the scars now, raised and white over Draco's chest, and he knew that _he_ had done that, nobody else, unlike the scars that were all over Draco's body now, these marks belonged to him. He traced them with the wet cloth, following the rigidly straight pathways of them, the roads to nowhere, making them wet, the wetness making them glisten in the moonlight.

Draco sighed under his touch, sighed and shivered and leaned into it best he could as incapacitated as he was. Harry could see the goosebumps forming when night breezes whispered over his skin, could see the muscles tense under the skin when Draco shivered. Harry didn't want to think about it, concentrated on not thinking about anything when he stroked the cloth down his chest and down the pale stomach, white and flat and smooth and slightly concave. He could see the faint outline of ribs, Draco was really getting too thin, his – condition taking its toll on his body. There were scars all over his stomach, too, as if just to show that this, here, is any creature's softest, most vulnerable spot, and that the primal, animalistic instinct is to attack, just here. Deep scars, and Harry could imagine the heavy claws that ripped into the soft flesh, didn't want to see it, found the image so repulsive he could almost feel the roiling in his belly. The scars were ugly. They ruined him. Harry put his hand over the bare skin and rubbed over the scars, as if he could somehow wipe them out.

"H-Harry," Draco panted, and shifted his hips, and Harry looked up at him and felt like he was seeing everything, really _seeing_ everything for the first time.

Lying there on top of Quidditch player sheets with weird coloured stains no cleaning charm could dispel, like he was on top of another world, the chains cold and smooth around pale wrists and ankles and the moonlight glinted off of them, too, making them almost glow, as if in the end, they were all the same element - moon and chains and Draco. And Draco--

Draco's hair was tousled, the wet dark gold strands of it clinging to the side of his cheek, to his forehead in tendrils, his face was flushed and his shirt was open, all of him glistening and wet, all the way down to his stomach, nipples pink and stiff and crinkled tight, and he was trembling, panting, mouth slightly open so that Harry could see the hint of red dark wetness inside...

And Harry realised how he was leaning over him, one hand on a wet and bare stomach, another wave of revulsion rolling through his own stomach--

"_H-Harry_," Draco's voice sobbed, and the sheets were twisted underneath him.

Despite himself, Harry's eyes travelled down the length of Draco's body, down to where he didn't want to look, just inches and inches away from where his hand was _still _resting and Harry realised, with the sort of jolt that settles down in his stomach, that...that Malfoy's hard and wanting down there.

It looked obscene. All of it, all of this was obscene, the very sound of Draco's voice, the need in it, and Harry wanted to tear his hand away, but it was like being Petrified, somehow he couldn't make himself move -

Draco looked at him with eyes that were wide, bewildered, dark and desperate and staring, sheets bunching at his hips and beneath his shoulders and scrunching at his feet.

"_Hot,_" he said, "so hot...Just touch me a little, Harry...feel like I'm going to die..."

Harry's hand moved without him even noticing it, as if it acted of its own accord, without him feeling the move nor his brain registering that he had even given the command. Just a tiny distance, the scant inches of bare exposed skin, pausing at the edge of clothing and skin.

"Harry," Draco said, and his voice sounded pained, "_I need you."_

There was a hot, sick feeling, like the words were sinking into his skin, through his skin, sinking into the base of his spine and spreading upwards, coursing through his body like a spell. His hand did the moving by itself again, and dimly Harry registered the rough texture of trousers underneath his fingertips. He heard the hiss and felt the shudder as he brushed his knuckles over the Draco's clothed erection, but Harry couldn't even bring himself to look Draco in his dark wild eyes, could only focus on those stained dark sheets with the little Quidditch players zooming about, because this was madness. His throat felt suddenly dried up, his body tight, first hot, then cold. There was only moonlight, and he knew it would only get brighter the fuller it got and in the dark blue fabric with splotches of stains there were fast little streaks of light...

There was a sharp rapping sound at the door. And then it turned into banging.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice called loudly from outside the door. "Harry, are you in there?"

Harry froze, unable to talk or speak or even move. And then the knob was turning and then the door was opening and suddenly horror came crashing down on him and he leapt back from the bed as if it were hot metal.

"There you are!" Ginny said as she threw the door wide open and -_oh God maybe she knew- _giving him one of her impatient looks. "What's been taking you so long? I've been looking all over for you." She looked surreal, standing there, surrounded by the dim light spilling in from the hallway, hair bright and features familiar and safe, wearing her blue dress and slippers, like she had just stepped off the set of a different movie altogether.

"I'm just finishing up here!" Harry said quickly, stepping forward and directly in Ginny's line of sight so that he could effectively block her view of the bed. He strode right up to her, trying to look confident, looking right into her warm brown eyes so she wouldn't look anywhere else in the room. "Just on my way to find you, actually," he said, taking her by the shoulders.

"How's he doing?" Ginny asked, "Still alive, right?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but all Harry could manage was a nod, and a fervent hope that somewhere, anywhere, there was a benevolent God so that Ginny wouldn't decide to check for herself.

"Good," she said, and took Harry's hand. "That means you can come with me."

Harry happily allowed himself to be pulled out of the room, making sure to close the door behind them as they left.

-+-

Before Harry could even think about what had just happened, what had almost happened, he found himself with his back against the door of Ginny's room, with soft lips on his and a soft and warm body pressed against him, and her tongue pushing into his mouth. She was kissing him urgently, one hand on the back of his neck, soft and small and smooth.

He kissed her back automatically, almost instinctively – after all, it was only polite. But he didn't know where his mind had gone and run off to, it kept on drifting, and every now and then he would get a flash: the feel of wet hot skin under his fingers, a glimpse of red between parted lips –

He squeezed his eyes shut as if he could squeeze them out of his brain through sheer will. And he grasped Ginny's slight body to him, squeezing her and kissing her with determination, because this was Ginny, the feel of her slim waist underneath his hands, her hair brushing his cheek, the perfumed shower-fresh strawberry scent of her, he wanted to breathe her in, to erase that strange sense of sickness that still lingered in his gut.

"Oh, _Harry," _she breathed, and when she pulled away her soft pink lips were swollen from the pressure of kisses, her brown eyes glittering with something like a mixture of mischief and hope.

She pressed another kiss to his mouth, soft and wet, her tongue licking just lightly at his as she slid her hand down his body and he let her, let her slide it down his chest and stomach and further and there was a sudden jolt and then he was suddenly making an embarrassment of himself in his own pants.

Two things occurred to him: one, that he was thankful that it was his own pants, not Malfoy's, and two – he hadn't even realised that he was _hard. _

"Oh Harry," Ginny giggled, and she didn't even care, she might have even felt flattered. Harry wasn't about to ruin that. She leant in for another kiss and this one didn't feel good at all.

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Harry," Ginny said kindly, "I mean, it happened to – it happens to everybody."

It was more than embarrassment, Harry wanted to tell her, it was that feeling of horror and the feeling of being sick and the feeling of not exactly knowing what had just happened. It was the damn pheromones, it had to be, they were screwing with his head and now he didn't know which way was up. He felt dirty. Not to mention the icky feeling in his pants.

" After all," Ginny said, her voice soft and seductive now, "this just means that we get to have all the fun of getting you _ready_ again."

She pulled him over to the bed, giving him a smouldering look as she slowly slid one thin strap of her dress down her pale and freckled shoulder. Then the other strap and then the dress was sliding off of her body, lying in a rumpled heap of soft blue at her feet and she stood before him in a set of matched lingerie. A pink bra cupped her perky, small breasts, pushing them up for display, and the pink panties were lined with lace, like running guidelines to the area of interest. There was a tiny bow in between her breasts and a tiny bow on the front of her panties. She laid herself back on the bed, invitingly, and for one single horrifying moment Harry thought she might say something like, 'Come and get it, tiger,' or 'I am Gryffindor, hear me roar.'

"Come on, Harry," she said instead, and licked her lips. She was lovely, beyond lovely, all her white and gently freckled limbs, slender and laid out for him, smooth skin and perfect supple little breasts and slightly parted pouting lips, ready for kisses and offering who knew what else. He watched as she ran two small white hands up her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing them together, and then one hand slid down between her legs, rubbing herself over the soft satin fabric of her cute pink panties.

It was obscene.

This – this wasn't the Ginny he wanted. He wanted the white wedding dress and the church filled with their friends, he wanted her sweet kisses and her softly whispered '_I love you'_s, kisses by the lake and holding each other in the sunset. He wanted her big brown eyes shining at him with gratitude and relief, the tight way she clung to him so he knew she needed him, he wanted her hand squeezing his under the table, and the way she rested her head on his shoulder and nuzzled into his cheek. He wanted her sweetness, her purity. Not this.

When he didn't move Ginny pushed herself up and crawled towards him, her hands on his waist and then fumbling at his belt.

"Ginny, stop."

Ginny didn't look up at him, sliding the belt strap out of one end of the buckle. "You can do it yourself if you really want, but I thought you could use a helping hand."

"No, Ginny, I mean – don't."

Now she looked up at him, those big brown eyes he always found so endearing, so adoring, looking puzzled and frankly a bit brassed off. "What's the matter, Harry? Don't you want to?"

"Yes, of course I want to –"

"Then I don't see the problem here," she huffed, crossing her arms over her barely-clothed chest. "You've been hinting that you've wanted to all evening, I don't see why we're stopping now."

"I just...look, maybe I just want to take things slowly, all right?"

"I can take things slowly," Ginny purred, her hand rubbing up and down his thigh in slow rhythm.

"Ginny, that's not what I meant –"

"Then what is it Harry?" she demanded, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Don't you find me attractive?"

"I do, Ginny, you know I do! I think you're beautiful."

"Then what is it? What's wrong? Why don't you ever want to –"

"I want it to be right...to wait for, I don't know, the right moment. I know it sounds dumb." Harry wanted her to understand, didn't understand why she didn't feel the same way. Why wouldn't she want to be with him, and feel like she loved him, _really_ loved him, before having sex.

"You know what, it _is_ dumb, because what is there to wait for? You _always_ want to wait! When it was back in Hogwarts you wanted to wait for after the war, and I got that, and I still I get that, but now it's_ over_, and you're still not ready. You wait and wait and there's never _going_ to be a right moment!"

"Ginny," Harry faltered, searching for words. He never was too good at situations like this. "I'm...I'm sorry –"

"Good! I hope you're sorry!" She took a deep breath, as if to calm herself, and there was a sudden desperation in her next words. "Don't you want me, Harry?" she asked, taking his hands into hers and looking into his eyes. "Don't you love me?"

It was a ridiculous question, of course Harry loved her, and he had to tell her so, squeezing her small hands. "Of course I do, Ginny, you have to know that...but...that's just it, I love you _too much_, I just want it to be perfect and right and to wait for the right time for us –"

"That's a load of bollocks, Harry, and you know it," Ginny snapped, yanking both her hands back. "If you loved me, then you would stop pushing me away!" She shook her head, and Harry had never seen her eyes filled with such...disappointment. It made him feel as if something had crumpled inside of him. "You don't get it, do you, Harry? I don't care about the right time or the right moment, because I love you, and if it's with you, then it's right. That's all I need. And you just don't get it."

She snatched the blanket from the bed and pulled it over herself, as if trying to regain some semblance of modesty even though Harry had already seen it all, and more than that. It seemed like she wanted to cry. Harry moved towards her awkwardly, tried to raise his arms to embrace her, and she pushed him away.

"You know what?" Ginny said, one hand clutching the blanket to her chest, her eyes blazing, defiant. "You can keep waiting around all you want, wait for the right moment if you want, but I'm not waiting around for you!"

"Ginny, I'm sorry –" Harry began, wishing he could make things right and once again failing miserably. "I didn't know..."

"Leave, _please_," she hissed, turning away from him. "I don't want to look at you right now."

Harry, not knowing what else to do, obliged. As he stood outside of her closed bedroom door he could hear her screaming into her pillow, and for the first time since he'd known Ginny, he felt powerless to help her.

-+-

Harry lay in bed that night, eyes closed but unable to sleep. All the nights he'd ever had worrying about death seemed almost preferable to this, the terrible feeling of making Ginny feel bad, the guilt, that tense feeling in his chest when she was mad at him, and, of course, there was the whole business with Malfoy –

He was not going to think about Malfoy. Or, _Oh God!_ what had almost happened. Whatever that might have been.

Part of him longed for simpler days, when all he had ever had to worry about was saving the world and defeating a funny looking evil lizard/snake man.

It was times like these that Harry really wished he could have a therapist. It wasn't like he could mention Ginny and sex to Ron without either making his best friend's head explode or risking blunt force trauma to the head. And Hermione – well, Hermione was probably the closest thing to a therapist that he could think of, and maybe she could help him understand girls, but there was _no way in hell_ he was going to try and breach the subject of sex with her. Um, again.

It had to be the pheromones, that he just hadn't had enough of the potion, that he was confused, he was manipulated, it was any number of things that could logically explain his behaviour. And then there was Ginny, that he did love her, and she was right, so what did it matter if the moment wasn't right and perfect and romantic, sex was just sex after all, never mind that he hadn't done it before, she wouldn't care because she loved him, and it didn't matter as long as they loved each other, right?

Harry wasn't getting any sleep any time soon.

And the - the incident. His reasoning had been clinical, he reminded himself sternly. Any inappropriate physical reactions were an uncontrollable side effect, because he had forgotten to take more of the potion before he had stepped into the room room, which was admittedly dumb, but not completely unforgivable. It was those damn _pheromones_, and he had _had_ to help Draco – Malfoy - out, because no one else could.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over in bed again, for what seemed like the fortieth time, the sheets and blankets a hopeless tangled mess around his legs and torso.

He kicked everything off in sudden aggravation, pushing it all to the floor. He needed a drink.

He went down to the kitchen and poured himself a cold glass of water. He climbed the stairs slowly, listening to each familiar creak of the Burrow, this place he had grown to think of as home. On the way back to his room he stopped in the hallway, finding himself pausing, almost out of sheer force of habit, outside of Malfoy's room.

"Potter? Is that you? I know you're out there."

Harry jumped, and spilled his water all over the floor.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, unable to help himself as he opened the door, entering that godforsaken room once again. Malfoy was still chained up on the bed, of course, looking much like he'd been left, hair mussed, shirt open – Harry flushed and did not care to let his eyes investigate much further. "Is that you?"

"No, Potter, it's actually some other devastatingly attractive blond that you've chained up to a bed for your own depraved measures – of course it's me, you twat, who else would it be? Wait, no, don't answer that, that's entirely too much information."

Harry never thought he'd be so happy to hear Draco Malfoy call him a twat. "Oh, thank Merlin," he said.

"Do you care to tell me why I am in such an indecent state of dishabille?" Malfoy asked. The flush from his face was gone entirely, he wasn't sweating, panting, moaning – Harry shook his head. The medicines must have worked.

"Hello? Potter? Stay with me here. I know big words send your puny little brain into dizzying fits of stupor, but _why am I undressed." _

"Actually, you're half-dressed," Harry pointed out, keeping a healthy distance away from the bed. Apparently Malfoy did not remember what was quickly becoming known in Harry's head as The Incident; that little nugget of knowledge came as an intense relief to Harry.

"Ever the optimist," Malfoy drawled, "but I still don't know why I'm half-naked."

"You were hot – er, feverish," Harry explained. He cleared his throat to get rid of the sudden strange irritated feeling he got at saying those words. "I gave you some medicine, though, seems like you're fine now. How are you feeling?"

"I'm tired, hungry, my limbs are sore, I'm extremely uncomfortable, and quite cross, and I think I'd like to hurt you. Does that answer your question?"

"So, in other words, you're feeling much better," Harry said. It seemed to be a rare moment of lucidity for Malfoy, as the moon was still bright and streaming through the windows. It was an odd sort of thing, relief, that it could ease the pressure in your chest and warm you at the same time.

"Yes, much better," Malfoy agreed crankily, pulling at his chains. "Now get over here and let me go."

"You know I can't do that, Malfoy."

"Damn," Malfoy muttered, and Harry was surprised that he had agreed so easily. He had expected a temper tantrum or, at the very least, to be called a nasty name. "Then can you _loosen_ the clasps, at least?"

"What, so you can break out of them? No way, Malfoy, it's for your own good. After all," Harry pointed out, "you said just now that you wanted to hurt me."

"But I _always_ want to hurt you, that doesn't count," Malfoy countered, and was that a slight plea in his voice? Of course, it sounded nothing like how he had been earlier, begging, saying, _Harry, please – _

Harry forced himself to think about how Malfoy had once looked like as a slug. Slimy and putrid and fat. Definitely fat.

"I'll be good," Malfoy wheedled. "I promise."

Slimy, Harry thought, dripping with slime and revolting and gross.

"No," Harry said, "what if you're...odd again?" Malfoy gave him a look that suggested he had no idea what 'odd' meant and Harry wasn't about to examine what he thought 'odd' meant, either. "I mean, it's a precaution, you're far too unstable and unpredictable at this point."

"_Fine," _Malfoy huffed, blowing some strands of his own hair out of his face. "...But maybe you could lengthen them, at least just a little –"

"Malfoy..."

"My arms are sore and my leg is getting a cramp and my nose has been itching for the past hour and I can't scratch it and the cuffs are leaving marks on my wrists because I keep forgetting and keep straining against them. Just look at them! Ruined! My perfect alabaster pale skin marred by ugly red and purple marks! Next the circulation will get cut off and then my hands will turn black and _fall off, _and I bet that's what you want, isn't it?" Malfoy gave him an evil look. "You are one fucked up little Boy-Who-Lived, Potter."

Harry might have been fucked up, but Malfoy was a spaz who was prone to histrionics. Although, to his credit, the pale skin of his wrists bore dark, circular bruises, marks from the constant strain, and it couldn't have been comfortable being forced to stay like that.

"I'm just going to lengthen the chain a little," Harry said, "so you can move."

Malfoy seemed to think that was fair, as he didn't say anything – it would have been too much to expect a _thank you_, of course – as Harry drew out his wand. He walked to the bed and tapped the chains above Malfoy's head, causing them to stretch and grow, long enough so that Malfoy didn't have to stay lying down, so that he could sit up and regain just a little freedom of movement.

"There," Harry said, "you should be all set now." He put his wand away and turned to go; he didn't want to stay in here any longer - even if Malfoy didn't remember The Incident, Harry did.

Malfoy's hand suddenly darted out and caught his wrist. When did he get so fast?

"Don't go," Malfoy said, and then Harry found himself being yanked back onto the bed, on top of Malfoy, and for the second time that night, he inexplicably found himself with someone else's tongue pushing into his mouth.

Only this wasn't a tongue he knew, this was a stranger's tongue - although one could argue that Harry knew Malfoy better than he knew Ginny – but this was _Malfoy._ His brain froze up, his body froze up, his heart was racing, and his lungs felt tight, as if they had completely forgotten how to take in any breaths at all.

One thing was for sure, he was not going to kiss back.

Only his limbs weren't obeying him properly and Malfoy's tongue was hot and wet, and his kisses had an insistent force to them, a sort of dizzying brutality that was nothing at all like kissing Ginny. Even when Ginny was passionate her mouth was still soft and sweet, feminine. Malfoy didn't care if he hurt Harry, the hand around his wrist clutching hard enough to bruise, his teeth nipping sharply at Harry's lips, his tongue forcing in as if trying to lick the back of Harry's throat. He could feel Malfoy underneath him, lean and wiry, could touch him if he wanted to, all that bare skin and that body arching up for him, how he clearly wanted him, just like when he was feverish –

With a gasp Harry suddenly found his strength again, and as if his arms had only now just gotten the message, his one free hand shoved hard against Malfoy's chest, pushing him back as Harry tore his mouth away. "What—" he began, and then the rest of the words died in his mouth as he realised, he saw – Malfoy's pupils were dilated, his eyes large and black as a moonless night.

"What, Harry?" Malfoy said with faux innocence, keeping his vice grip around Harry's wrist. The chain clanked as the other hand snaked up to curl behind Harry's neck. Harry could feel the cold metal against his skin, the heaviness of the iron laying all along his back. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you need?" He leaned up slightly, to nuzzle softly against Harry's throat, a twisted parody of affection as he held Harry in place. "I could smell your arousal, you know. Earlier..." he murmured against Harry's skin, "I could tell how much you wanted me, how hard you got, with your little girlfriend waiting for you just outside the door—"

"Shut up," Harry hissed, shoving back at Malfoy's chest again and using the leverage to twist out of his grasp.

"Ooh, I see I've hit a raw nerve," Malfoy sneered, looking like himself and not himself at all. His eyes were completely dark, inhuman, like staring into an abyss. "I get you far more excited than little Ginny could ever hope for, she can't make your heart pound, your dick twitch, doesn't make you want to fuck--"

"You shut your filthy mouth," Harry snarled, and before he knew it he was the one grabbing onto Malfoy's wrists, just underneath the cold metal cuffs, pressing him back into the bed, squeezing hard enough to add his own set of marks below the circular bruises.

"Hurt me, Harry," Malfoy – the thing that wasn't Malfoy – cooed. "That's what you want, isn't it? I'll let you, I'll be good, I promise, you can hurt me, not like your precious little Ginny, spreading her legs for you—"

Harry dug blunt nails into Malfoy's wrists, gritting his teeth, wanting to hurt him, to hurt this creature who had stolen Malfoy's body, wanted to punish it, wanted to punish himself. His hands shook with the effort, every muscle in his arm tensed, like he was forming a complete circuit for the electricity of his anger. Tears started to drip out of those horrible black eyes but Malfoy's mouth smiled, opened and laughed, and revoltingly the inside of his mouth was just as wet and red as before.

"_Yes," _said the deep, rough voice that sounded nothing like Malfoy, as Malfoy's body arched up underneath him.

"_I'll destroy you,"_ the voice promised. "_And then I'll tear you open, slowly..."_

The abyss of those black eyes was staring back at him, looking into him, and tears were streaming out of them, falling down Malfoy's cheeks while his body shook with laughter. Malfoy's wrists were a mess – bruises and finger-shaped marks and half-moon indentations, some of them even starting to bleed.

Harry stumbled backwards, eyes wide with horror, and ran. Malfoy's mocking laughter followed him, chasing close behind, down the hall and back into the bedroom, back into his bed, echoing in his head over and over again.

-+-

They say that things always look brighter in the morning. Ginny was sure that whoever "They" were, they never had Harry bloody Potter for a boyfriend.

Of course, there was a time when Ginny Weasley could have never imagined, not even in her wildest dreams, that she could ever have Harry bloody Potter for a boyfriend. Sometimes she still remembered it, how small she had been, what a mousy thing she once was, how shy. Meals in the Great Hall spent surrounded by housemates where everyone talked around her and she could never think of a single thing to say. Nights spent lying in her bed and listening to the other girls' whispers and giggles, sharing secrets that she told herself she didn't want to know anyway.

Sometimes she had wondered if they were giggling at her. They all had crisp new dress robes and their books smelled of sheepskin and new leather, they had pretty clips for their hair and shiny necklaces to wear. Ginny's robes didn't fit her exactly right because the girl who'd owned them before was a little bigger than she was, and her mother told her it'd be all right, that was just more room for her to grow into so she could wear them next year, too. The other girls were all bright, pretty things; Ginny felt as dull as her old textbooks, with their cracked leather and yellowing pages, as dull as her dark dark grey robes, lightened from repeated washings.

She faded into the background, overlooked. One time, Harry had bumped into her and he had reached out a hand for her, had placed it on her shoulder so gently, so kindly. She flushed with the pleasure of being noticed, felt the warmth and giddy feeling spread through her whole body, until he had said, "Sorry, uh..." and had had to be reminded of her name.

She was not that weak, pathetic little girl anymore. The little girl who let herself get possessed by the Dark Lord just because she was _lonely_. Someone like that was beyond pity. She vowed she would never let herself be that pathetic ever again.

For years she had nightmares about it, about how she had woken up once with blood on her hands and not knowing how or why or whose. About how easily she had been taken in, how stupid she had been, how she had almost died – how she had almost killed. About how it had felt to be in the thrall of the Dark Lord, how his presence had felt inside her and how her body and mind were no longer her own–

Had that one recurring dream about a million snakes wriggling into her skin, wriggling into every pore. Even now she couldn't pick up a notebook without feeling her skin crawl, without the lump of nausea in her throat. Without the phantom sensation of snake tongues flickering on her skin, trying to wriggle inside.

No, she would never let herself be that ugly little girl ever again.

She thought it would naturally get better when she got older. She made one or two friends that she could talk about classes with and maybe giggle with at night. But in her third year, the only boy that would even look at her was Neville Longbottom. And Neville, as nice as he was, was still social suicide.

And of _course_ it would only be after she agreed to go to the Yule Ball with Neville bloody Longbottom that she would find out that Harry Potter might have asked her. She didn't care that it was only because Cho Chang had already turned him down – it was better to be chosen as second than never to be chosen at all.

The Ball was where she met Michael. She noticed him noticing her across the dance floor, but she had never been noticed before and she wasn't sure if he even meant to look at her. Maybe he was just looking at one of the pretty girls, like Parvati or Lavender or Cho, those radiant girls, whose gowns and jewellery sparkled in the candlelight.

Or maybe he was laughing at her - Neville was making an honest attempt at dancing and Ginny was trying not to let her feet get stepped on, and she was certain that she looked ridiculous, and maybe that was why that stupid Ravenclaw kept staring. But when she told Neville she was going to get a drink, completely forgetting to ask if he wanted anything, the rude boy followed her.

He introduced himself to her over the punch bowl, he said his name was Michael, he spilled his cup of punch in the process. Their hands touched when she helped him mop up the mess, and he smiled at her. He was not rude at all.

Michael was everything she wanted a boyfriend to be. He took her to Hogsmeade, where they had tea at Madame Puddifoot's and he bought her chocolates from Honeydukes. The first time he took her hand she felt a little thrill shudder up her arm and her chest felt warm. She was the first girl – okay, maybe in the first handful of girls – in her year to have a boyfriend. Other girls looked at her with awe and something like jealousy; she made friends, and when the lights went out at night she always had something to giggle about and someone to giggle with.

She liked Michael. She liked the way he looked at her - as if, for the first time in her life, she could be one of those bright, pretty girls.

He gave her her first kiss in front of Madame Puddifoot's, out in the street where the lamps were glowing and snow was falling for the first time that year. His lips were soft and slightly chapped, his breath was warm, and his fingers were slightly cold on her face. Everything was perfect and exactly how it was in every single one of her fantasies, just the way she had always hoped and dreamed and imagined, and only the boy was different.

And maybe there was a time when Ginny could have understood that feeling that Harry had – maybe. Maybe there was a time when she wanted her first time to be perfect, when she wanted to wait for just the right moment, just the right boy. Maybe she had wanted to save herself, even, for a white dress and being carried over the threshold, being laid down gently on a bed with satin sheets, rose petals strewn across like thick velvety drops of blood.

Michael was sweet and Michael liked her. She remembered sneaking kisses in the library, in the stacks, knowing that Madam Pince was patrolling spellbooks J through K. She remembered both of them sitting cuddled together under his coat, keeping warm at the Ravenclaw/Slytherin Quidditch games, cheering and shouting insults. She remembered fooling around with him in his bed, fumbling touches and hands wandering only as far as they dared to go, and remembered the erratic way her heart had pounded, before she grew bold.

She remembered their first time, the way that you always remember your first time, and how he took her to an expensive restaurant and how they danced, how they had watched the sun setting through the trees, his arm tight around her, and how the stars had looked that night through his dormitory windows. She remembered that she hadn't really wanted to but she did, because Michael liked her so much and Michael was so nice and everything seemed like how she always thought it would be, except for the boy. She remembered that Michael had said "I love you" between kisses, and she had felt her heart squeeze and jump.

She remembered that it had hurt. She remembered that she hadn't liked it. She remembered that it was unpleasant and over fairly quickly, and she remembered that terrible feeling of disappointment afterwards even as she laid her cheek against Michael's bare, slightly sticky chest.

Sex only seems like a big deal to those who haven't had it, Ginny realised. Michael was overly eager and a tad too forceful and he was awkward at it, always so demanding about it after their first time, but Ginny learned not to mind it after the first couple of times, even if she never really liked it. She couldn't learn to like it.

But to her friends she was something of a legend, she knew so much, and boys seemed to notice her more, too, as if becoming sexually active automatically made her body start producing Veela hormones. When she chucked Michael there were plenty of boys who wanted to take his place, boys, she realised, that wanted her – but, why wouldn't they? She was pretty and popular and bright.

She liked the way that boys looked at her, the way their eyes sometimes flicked to her chest involuntarily when trying to talk to ask her about Potions homework. And she liked how eagerly and how quickly Dean said yes when she asked him out, and how she could tell that he had liked her for quite a long time.

When she slept with Dean she was his first, and it didn't hurt at all. Dean was so gentle, so solicitous, worried about hurting her and asking her what felt good. Dean, with his sweet, deep voice and his gentle artist's hands, who had told her he loved her and that she was the one. It felt like it meant something. He looked at her afterwards with awe in his dark eyes, with gratitude – as if she had given him something precious, something priceless. She could have loved him for that.

Dean worshiped her after that. He catered to her every whim, to the point of even annoying her, sometimes. Why had nobody ever told her that sex turned all men into slavering morons? Veela could take over the world if they wanted to, forget about You-Know-Who.

And if dating Michael made Dean notice her then dating Dean made Harry notice her. By the time Harry finally came around Ginny considered herself quite experienced. She had had her practise relationships already, after all, she was now ready for the real thing. She was sexy, she was beautiful, these things made her confident and bold and strong.

Only now, Harry didn't want her. Last night, Harry had pushed her away for the second time. Harry was always pushing her away, Harry didn't want to touch her, Harry didn't find her attractive, Harry might as well have told her that he thought she was worthless. Harry looked at her and saw a pathetic, weak, and ugly little girl.

Things should have been easy, now that war was over – that was what Harry had promised her, wasn't it? A better world, a kinder world, to live and love in, one where they could lead normal lives, one where they could love each other and not be afraid to lose each other the next day.

Harry had lied to her. She didn't even want to look at him. He disgusted her, for daring to choose a girl once, dare to give her hopes and dreams, and then daring to think that he could toss her aside, so easily. She didn't want to look at him and get that terrible crushing feeling inside. She didn't want to look at him and see that pathetic girl in his eyes.

That morning, her father made a stand and said, "There's no way we can stay here tonight, I've arranged for us to stay with Andromeda – and Ginny, I don't care what you have to say, you're coming too. It's enough that we're letting that...that..._that_ stay in my house! I refuse to endanger my family any further than I already have, especially not my little girl."

Her mother said, "Be reasonable, Ginny, darling, we just want to keep you safe. It's too dangerous for you to stay here, you could get hurt..."

Her brother Percy said, "You know, Ginny, it's only logical – why would you want to put yourself in harm's way?"

Her brother Ron said, "Come on, Ginny, you know you have to go, I mean, I'm staying because of Hermione and Harry and I can take care of myself, but you really shouldn't – it's too dangerous!"

Her brother George said nothing at all.

Ginny said, "Okay," and surprised them all. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why she should want to stay.

-+-

The day stretched out before them like the day before a battle. There were preparations to be made, potions to be brewed, and the air was tense with their apprehensions, with the feeling that no matter how much they prepared they would still never be ready for what was to come.

"I mean, er, we _are_ technically safe, right?" asked Ron. "With the chains and all."

"Of course, Ron," Hermione reassured him. "Just make sure you're quick with your spells and everything will be fine."

Harry couldn't let himself go into that room again, not after what had happened last night. Ron and Hermione wandered in and out of it freely, bringing in food and water, and every time he would ask them if Malfoy was all right or how was he or did he act strange to them in any way.

"Of course he's all right, Harry," Hermione said. "Honestly, you don't need to worry so much about Malfoy all the time - and if you're so worried, you can go check on him yourself."  
"Of course he's acting queer, Harry," Ron said, "It's Malfoy after all – even if he didn't have to worry about that werewolf shite on top of that. But yeah. Why don't you go poke at him a bit yourself?"

"Er, no thanks," Harry said, "I have to go...do...things. Downstairs. Involving potions and stuff."

Sunset came far too soon for anyone's comfort.

"We should watch, shouldn't we?" Hermione asked. "The transformation, I mean."

They entered the room where Malfoy was chained up, bathed in the rosy-orange light of the setting sun. Malfoy tossed and turned, a strange whine starting as a hum low in his throat and then raising in both pitch and volume until it made the insides of their heads ring with the strange sound.

"Oh Merlin, that sounds terrible!" Ron said, clapping his hands over his ears. "Why's he doing that?"

"I think...I think he knows," Harry murmured. "He can feel it coming on."

"It won't be long now," Hermione said grimly. Her eyes were on the long, stretched-out shadows cast on the floor, watching the sky through the windows. "Once the sun touches the horizon, we'll probably have five or six minutes, if that."

The sky was a bright purple and gold, burning through the trees, the sun a red disc on the horizon.

The sun dropped, the orange light in the room faded, and then the sky began to darken.

"It's coming," Harry vaguely heard Hermione say. But he wasn't watching her, he was watching the figure writhing on the bed, and then he watched him suddenly stop, each muscle pulled suddenly taut.

And then the screaming began.

The most horrible, drawn-out sounds of pure agony poured out of Malfoy's mouth. It was the kind of screaming that brought to mind images of the battlefield, the kind of screaming that accompanied broken bones and torn ligaments. And then it was screaming that barely sounded like screaming, wild and inhuman, each one ripped brutally out of his body like an animal being slaughtered.

The change started with one arm, elongating and twisting, stretching the skin and it seemed, for a moment, as if the bones would completely break through the skin altogether. Malfoy stared at his arm and the screaming changed in pitch, full of fear as well as pain. His eyes rolled in his head wildly, frightened and unfocused. The sound of bones crunching could be heard as his leg shifted and buckled in on itself, knee bending backward in a way that limbs were never meant to bend. There was nothing cohesive about this transformation, as if each of his limbs had decided to act of its own accord, turning and moving all independently of each other.

It was horrifying to watch, and it must have been even more horrifying to experience. Malfoy screamed and screamed. He looked as if he were being slowly taken apart by his own body. His face shifted, bones restructuring into a snout. And then it shifted back. One leg, too, was doing the same, stretching long and then contracting again. And then his arms were stretching and contracting.

"What's going on?" Harry demanded, "it's almost like....like..."

"Like his body is fighting him," Hermione supplied. "Like it's fighting the change."

"Can he do that?" Harry asked her, an impossible hope rising in his chest. "Can he fight it off?"

"It's inevitable," Hermione said, "No one can fight off the transformation, it's never been documented....It's only this is his first change, so his body is trying the best it can, and maybe it can keep it off for a while—"

"Just because it's never been documented doesn't mean that it isn't possible," Harry countered quickly. "We don't know anything about werewolves, maybe we can ground him, maybe he can keep it off or at least keep him from losing his human mind –"

"Harry, don't you think someone would have tried that already?" Ron interjected. "As far as I know, I haven't heard of any grand successes there!"

Harry knew that he had to try. Before it was too late – the pale, almost nonexistent hairs on Malfoy's arms glistened, as if they were growing in longer and thicker. Harry took one step forward, cautiously, and then he called, "Malfoy, Malfoy – you have to listen to me, you can fight this, you're stronger than this!"

Malfoy's entire body was trembling, shifting and changing, deformed and then normal again. His hand curved, fingers seeming to melt together before they spread out again.

"Malfoy...Draco!" Harry cried, and in desperation, not knowing what else to say - "Remember who you are!"

"Harry," Ron said, wand out and ready, "No offence mate, but you sound like a blathering idiot."

But for a moment the limbs stopped shifting, stopped twisting and bending. Malfoy's head lolled on his neck and his eyes were wide and dark, and he stopped screaming long enough to moan, "H-Harry?"

"Yes?" asked Harry, stepping just a little bit closer.

Malfoy stared at him, body stuck in a state of flux, panting with the agony of his transformation. "Help me," he mouthed. He didn't seem to even have the strength to speak.

"It'll be all right, Draco," Harry began, "everything will be all right...just listen to me, you can fight this thing..."

"Be careful, Harry," Hermione said, "don't get too close."

"Harry," Ron said, "I think this counts as assisted suicide. And we're not going to assist you!"

"It'll be all right," Harry reassured them, "He hasn't changed yet, so it must be working! Draco, you have to listen to me, just...just remember, you're not a monster—"

A piercing scream filled the room and stabbed through their ears as Malfoy's body changed all at once, bones crunching, limbs bending backwards, twisting in on themselves, joints bending and twisting in ways they were never meant to go. Each fingernail was slowly peeling back, revealing the red, raw flesh underneath, as claws sprouted from his nailbeds, crunching through the fingernails, popping them clean off. Blood streamed down his hands, now shifting into large paws. Horrible wet tearing sounds, as if his skin was splitting open to reveal the beast inside, and suddenly there it was, before them, a monstrosity that was some sort of amalgamation between man and wolf, and then it leapt off the bed, lunging for Harry's throat.

Harry leapt back, even though the chains allowed for a very limited range of motion. The creature was yanked back by his chains, and vicious jaws snapped closed on air. It didn't stop him from making another lunge, claws extended and swiping at the three humans in the room, snarling as the chains pulled him back again. Black lips curled back from long white teeth, dripping with saliva as he snapped his jaws, straining against his restraints, the clanking chains the only thing keeping him from mauling them all.

"Still think you can go make friends?" Ron asked, wand hand trembling slightly as the werewolf snapped and snarled at them, clearly hungry for blood.

"Probably not the best of ideas," Harry admitted.

There was nothing left of Malfoy in this feral creature. His face was that of a wolf's, long snout and lolling red tongue, deadly sharp claws and teeth, foam flecking his black lips like a rabid dog. He was covered with white fur from nose to tail, eyes as black as the deepest abyss. He clawed at the bed that he was chained to, ripping sheets and sinking his teeth into the pillow, ripping up bits of cotton from the mattress, so that feathers and fluff filled the air, covering the room like a slightly-grey snowdrift.

The wolf was growing increasingly frustrated at his confinement, that much was easy to see. With his claws he reached down and raked across the floor, wood crunching underneath giant paws, floorboards splintering with his need to rend and tear. Every time the chains yanked him back from attack he howled with rage, pulling against them, throwing himself at the humans time and time again. The bed creaked and groaned underneath his weight, chains rattling against their bolts, wood groaning at the strain.

"Um. He can't break free, right?" Ron said loudly, wincing as the chains pulled tight on creaking wood again.

"R-right," Hermione said, swallowing a little. "Theoretically."

The werewolf thrashed on the bed, gnashing his teeth, muscles coiled and then taking another snarling lunge, razor-sharp claws swiping at the air.

"I think we need a little better than theoretically, Hermione," Ron squeaked, voice breaking on the many syllables of his girlfriend's name.

"I have better than theoretically right here," Harry answered, keeping his wand aimed and steady.

"Wait – what's it doing?" Ron asked. "Is it...is it trying to bite the chains off? Hermione, can it do that?"

"No," Hermione said faintly, "but I don't think that's what it's actually—"

"Oh God," said Harry, when he realised what Malfoy was actually doing to himself.

Malfoy wasn't biting at the chains, but rather at his own ankles. Sharp teeth sank into the white furred flesh, turning it pink and then red with his own blood. Harry was sickeningly reminded of stories of wild animals caught in bear traps, how they'd gnaw off their own foot if it meant escape...

"Fascinating," Hermione murmured, "When unable to ravage any other living thing, the werewolf will turn its own destructive tendencies upon itself...I mean, who knows how far it'll go..."

Malfoy pulled his head back, and a thin red strip of his own flesh could be seen dangling from bloody teeth, like a grisly piece of string.

"I'm certainly not going to wait around and find out," snapped Harry. "_Stupefy!_"

-+-

Draco woke up naked and covered in blood. He supposed that there were worse ways to wake up, but still, this wasn't high on his list of Charming Ways to Start the Day.

His whole body ached; he could tell even without looking that he was covered in bruisesThe smell of blood made his stomach churn. But that could also have been due to the pile of passed-out Gryffindors on the other side of the room.

He was also chained to a bed, which made him doubt the validity of the theory that Gryffindors were all vanilla-flavoured prudes who preferred consensual heterosexual sex in the missionary position. In fact, if current evidence was to be believed, then last night he had somehow played a crucial role in a BDSM-y man-man-man-lady orgy. That possibly involved bestiality.

Draco shuddered. Okay, wonderful, now he _really_ wanted to puke.

"Hey!" he called, rattling his chains as hard as he could to make noise. "Wake up! Man held against his will here! Get up, you idiots! Help! Help! Innocent man being held prisoner! This is illegal! This is an atrocity! This is very uncomfortable!"

He wished he had a shoe to throw at them. And free hands to throw it with, for that matter.

Thankfully, the rattling and the shouting eventually did the trick. Slowly the idiots began to wake up, taking an unnecessarily long time to rouse themselves from their sleep.

"Hey! Hey!" Draco called. "Dire situation over here! Man in need of assistance!"

"Really, Malfoy?" Weasley mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Do you have to start that racket this early in the morn—WAUGH!"

"Oh, what is it?" Draco asked, annoyed.

"You're...you're...naked! Hermione, shield your eyes!" Weasley cried, clapping his hands over a still-sleepy Hermione's eyes.

"Yes," said Draco, "that is what tends to happen when you've gone through a traumatising metamorphosis and then you're left chained up so that you can't even _cover your shame_."

"Oh God," Weasley said, "Oh Merlin, Harry, get up, Malfoy's naked and he's yelling at me, _help_." He shook Potter hard, eyes wide and panicked.

"Malfoy's awake?" Potter exclaimed, waking up with a jolt.

"Yes, Malfoy is awake," Draco said, slowly, so that he could be understood, "And if you're all done manhandling him with your eyes, he'd really like to be released now."

Potter choked. "M-Malfoy," he said, "you're naked."

"Yes, we established that already," Draco snapped. "Can we please stop obsessing over my nudity? I know it's glorious and all, but I'm _cold_."

"Oh, right, s-sorry," Potter stammered, as eloquent as ever. "_Accio_ blanket." With one hand covering his eyes, he tossed the blanket over Draco's body.

"Ahem," Draco coughed, and rattled his chains.

"Right," Potter said, and coughed himself, taking out his wand to release the clasps.

"Thank you," Draco drawled, sitting up and stretching, one hand keeping the blanket up to cover his...pride. But then he noticed his wrists. "What...?"

They were completely mutilated; there was no other word for it. Raised ridges of flesh around long red gashes down both wrists, skin peeled back from the wounds, his forearms covered with dried blood, some of it flaking off in bits and little red flecks. The wounds were already starting to heal, completely scabbed over, flesh and skin trying to knit itself back together, but that knowledge only made Draco feel sicker rather than better.

"What have you sick, sick, demented perverts done to me?!" Draco demanded, staring at his wrists in horror.

"Um...er..." Potter began.

"Hey!" Weasley said, offended. "We didn't do anything to you, you did that to yourself!"

"Liar!" Draco hissed. "Filthy liar! Why would I...how could I..."

"It's true, Draco," Hermione said, in what she probably imagined was a gentle way. "When you were a wolf..."

"No..." There was a small thin red strip where it looked like the skin had been taken completely off. The gashes weren't straight, neat cuts, but vicious and jagged wounds. There were bite marks, imprints of sharp animal teeth... A cold sweat broke out all over his skin. "No!" Draco shouted, shaking his head.

_Sinking teeth into flesh need to hurt hot pain pain is good_

His skin crawled. He could feel the mix of sweat and dried blood crusty and sticky all over his body. The coppery taste in his mouth that he had associated with morning breath now seemed too much like something else, like the aftertaste of something red and hot and wet…

"Malfoy..." Potter said, reaching out to place a hand on his bare shoulder. "I'm...I'm sorry..."

"Don't touch me!" Draco hissed, shaking off the offending hand. He was panting and he didn't know when it had started. The dried blood all over him...that was his own.

"Malfoy..." Potter began again.

"Haven't you had enough of _touching_, Potter?" Draco spat at him.

"W-what do you mean?" Potter asked, as always, playing the ingénue. Guilt was written all over his stupid ugly face.

"Oh, we _both_ know how much you wanted to get your hands on me – and I don't mean in the entirely innocent fighting, wrestling, poorly-chosen turn of phrase way, either."

"What," said Weasley.

"I have no idea what you're going on about," Potter said, face flushing.

"Oh, you know. Play the good guy, the hero, so solicitous, so caring, and then, when I'm at my most vulnerable, you take advantage of me!"

"What!" Potter said.

"What?" Hermione said.

"What," Weasley said.

"How can you even say that," Potter growled, "you were the one who was _moaning_ and _begging_ for it, like some sort of disgusting bitch in heat—"

"What," Weasley said, weakly.

"Ron," Hermione said, delicately clearing her throat. "I think we should leave."

"Yes, Weasel," Draco sneered, "sounds like your bushy-haired girl-thing has a bright idea once in a blue moon. Why don't you two go _sod off_?"

"Don't talk to my friends that way!" Potter shouted, pointing his wand menacingly at Draco. Draco glared back at him, unfazed, and thought of how much he'd like to rip Potter's throat out.

"Yeah, you tell him, Harry!" Ron said.

"Ron, Hermione, _leave_," Harry ordered.

"But things were just starting to get interesting!" Ron whinged, as Hermione took him by the arm and pulled him out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Draco could sense that they hadn't really left, could smell them waiting just outside, most likely with their ears pressed to the door – he didn't care. Let them find out the truth.

"You disgust me, Potter," Draco spat, pulling the blanket tighter around him and making an admirable attempt to look regal nonetheless. "Who knew that everybody's precious little Saviour was such a bloody pervert?"

"Your memory's faulty," Potter countered. "You can't even remember what happened last night, can you? Or what you were like before you transformed? Let me help. You were pathetic, Malfoy, wiggling around like some two-knut rentboy...might as well have been saying, one sickle, sucky-sucky."

"Why Potter, didn't know you were the type to call for rentboys. Guess I shouldn't be too shocked, considering how eager you were to run your hands all over my body when I was too weak and helpless to fight you off. I've a question for you, do you molest everyone you supposedly 'save'? Is that how you and the Weaslette got together? Or was I a special case?"

"Watch it, Malfoy," Potter growled. "I've a right mind to plant my fist in your mouth."

"Bet that's not all you want to put in my mouth," Draco returned. He was the King of Comebacks.

"Oh, bugger it all, I don't care if you're damaged!" Potter said, and then lunged at him.

Draco was anticipating the fist to his face, so he dodged it just enough so that Potter's fist just glanced off his jaw. He could hear his teeth clicking together with the force of the punch. He countered by grabbing Potter's head and bringing it close for a head butt, the crown of his head smashing into Potter's nose, hearing a satisfying crunch and smelling blood. Potter howled with pain, hands scrabbling against bare skin, scratching and clawing. Draco took advantage of this single second of pain-induced disorientation to wrestle Potter to the ground, raising his fist to pound Potter's face in. He got in one good punch before Potter wrestled back, using his superior weight to flip their position, trying to get a good grip on Malfoy, most likely so that he could pin him and punch him. There was no way Draco was going to let that happen. He wrestled and tussled with Potter, surprised at how much easier it seemed to flip him, and remembered that he was stronger now, and maybe he would _finally_ be able to beat Potter to a nice little bloody pulp, and he wrapped his hands around Potter's neck, ready to choke the life out of him, even as he felt strong hands wrap around his own –

And this was how Molly Weasley found them, entangled with one another on the floor, when she ran into the room. And Draco was naked.

"Oh dear," she said.

"Oh God," Harry said, scrambling away.

"Dear Mother of Merlin," Draco said, covering himself with both hands, feeling a flush that started on his face and seemed to spread all over his body.

"_Accio_ blanket," Potter said weakly, who seemed to remember at the same time that Draco did that he was naked.

"Thank you," Draco said, and accepted the proffered blanket with as much grace and dignity that he could muster.

"I hope I'm not interrupting something," Molly said softly, averting her eyes. "But I need you boys to see this."

"It's nothing at all, Molly," Draco said, once he was semi-decent again. Or at least covering his indecent bits. This was even more mortifying than the time that Professor Trelawney had opened a closet to find him and Pansy inside – at least then he could convince her that she was just seeing a vision of a dark future, where lascivious youths were forced to cavort in small crawlspaces. He cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"We left Andromeda's as soon as we saw this," Molly said, her voice quiet and face pale. She held up the morning edition of _The Daily Prophet_.

The headline could be clearly seen, printed in large, bold letters. It read: "**WEREWOLF ATTACKS ALL OVER ENGLAND**."

"Oh," Draco said quietly, "Is that all."

"You'd better...um...get dressed," Potter said. "_Accio_ clothes."

Draco watched as tattered strips of cloth and bits of rags picked themselves up from various places all over the room and flew over to them, flying through the air like strange monochromatic butterflies, fluttering down around him like large pieces of confetti.

"Just my bloody luck," he sighed. "And I _liked_ this shirt, too."


	7. I Hear Hurricanes A'Blowin'

**I Hear Hurricanes A'Blowin**

**

* * *

**

_Reports have come in from all over England of werewolf sightings the night of the full moon. _

Wake up, remember nothing. Several days had passed, or so they told him. But there was a void in his mind where memory should be, minutes and moments and hours and hours all unaccounted for. He tried to think but most of it was blackness. Thinking harder only hurt.

Hurt. The pain he did remember, such immense pain, such horrible intensity, like being tortured with Cruciatus purely for someone's amusement, like being ripped apart, like no one could possibly hurt this much and not die –

Only he wasn't dead. Death would be a mercy he didn't deserve. He was back in the woods – that was the phrase, wasn't it? _Not yet out of the woods._ Night forests, forbidden forests, woods so dark and deep with only trees around towering like the great black skeletons of monsters, waiting for the kill—

There were flashes. A word here, a touch there, a moment of lucidity where he was talking to Potter before he felt like he had fallen asleep again. The stark image of a hand on bare, sweaty skin. Eating something. Being hungry. No, starving. Wanting something that he couldn't quantify. An inhuman yearning that wasn't at all his own. Pounding headache. Sick nausea. A glimpse of the moon, so full and bright, burning coldly into the back of his eyelids, and he was hungry, so, so hungry...

'_An enormous black wolf, beyond large, brobdingnagian...Merlin's beard, the biggest beast I ever laid eyes on...and there the damn thing was, right in my garden, [expletive] on my azaleas!' states eyewitness Merv Mackay. 'I nearly [expletive] myself!'_

Where had he been? What had he done? And where did his true self go when this all happened? Was he just sleeping? Or locked up somewhere deep inside, his own personal Azkaban, a flesh coffin tied up with chains?

His wrists ached. They always ached when he looked at them. They were covered with bandages now, itching under their bandages with the feeling of flesh healing, skin pulling tight around the thick black scabs.

He rubbed his fingers over his teeth; blunt, human teeth, and his mouth salivated with relief. They didn't tingle, they didn't itch, he didn't feel the overwhelming need to just _bite_ into something, didn't long for the gush of hot fresh blood...He felt very normal, all things considered.

Normal felt strange. He thought that he should feel different. He was shaken and upset but he felt like himself, he was depressed and possibly suicidal but that was all himself too, and there was no evidence that there was something else inside of him, no evidence except his torn-up skin that was healing much faster than it should...

And the hunger. He was so still goddamn hungry, all the time.

_A scene at a house in residential Dorchester shows signs of a forceful break-in and struggle. The occupants, newly-wed Marley Mason, 27, and his wife, Evelyn Mason, 28, are missing. _

At breakfast there was silence. The newspaper sat on the table, the headline glaring at anyone who dared to look at it. No one actually picked it up.

He didn't meet anybody's eye, hunched over his immense pile of food that disappeared as quickly as it could be built up. And he was ignoring Potter and the Weaslette was ignoring Potter. You had to ask everybody else to pass the sugar.

Mr. Weasley excused himself from the table the moment Draco had entered the room, with that haunted, fearful look in his eyes that Draco could so easily recognise, and at the same time, with that sense of revulsion that someone else, once upon a time, might have reserved for a Mudblood or a blood-traitor.

Mrs. Weasley was fairly pleasant still, mothering always. Nothing would change that. But she had never been around Lupin anywhere near the full moon. She had cleaned up the damage in the bedroom, the blood and the feathers everywhere and the eviscerated bed with springs sticking out and cotton guts spilling out, all the splinters from the crushed wooden frame, scattered bits of wood all over the floor. Her hands shook slightly when she poured his coffee.

_In Canterbury, the Noires have been unable to find either hide or hair of their son Felix, age 18. 'The window was open,' sobs his mother, Lucretia, 'Why did he leave the window open?'_

It appeared that his new mission was to eat the Weasley family out of house and home (not that that would have been too difficult even under normal circumstances). He'd thought that the gnawing in his stomach would have gone away by now. Shrink back into itself and disappear, like claws into nails, fangs into teeth, fur back into smooth skin. That was how things were supposed to work.

He shouldn't have had to deal with everybody's horrified glances when he kept on piling up more and more on his plate, shouldn't have had to resist that ridiculous barbaric urge to throw aside his utensils and just grab with hands and teeth instead to stuff himself, devour everything in sight. It was disgusting. And apparently nobody had informed his newly-changed body that steak was not a proper breakfast food, and therefore you shouldn't want it first thing in the morning, shouldn't feel like going mad with despair when denied it, and moreover, you shouldn't want steak that was so dripping raw and red that it was, to all appearances, still technically cow.

He was so hungry, even worse than when it had been war and sometimes there wasn't enough food, when the sight of a dead body or someone being tortured would quickly make you lose your appetite. This sort of hunger was like a black hole inside of him, that wanted to consume and keep on consuming, the sort of hunger that could not be sated – at least, not by anything other than what he really wanted: fresh red meat.

_In a quiet neighbourhood in Gloucester, residents say terrible screams were heard last night around 10 pm. "At first I thought it was a rogue banshee," states concerned neighbour Anomalous Jones, "Nobody could have guessed...Some people went outside to investigate, but there was nothing there."_

_At this time, the Aurors state that details of what was found on scene cannot be released to the general public. _

The only thing that was of any comfort at all was that Potter was clearly miserable. It didn't take preternatural senses to smell the resentment coming off from the Weaslette in waves. It made him want to laugh, and he did, a little, to himself, and thinking that how Potter could be miserable over a lovers' tiff, of all things and thinking of how the Weaslette probably hated Potter right now made him want to laugh a little bit more but then worried that that might sound a bit too much like going mad. He didn't feel mad. Not now, at any rate. It made sense to him, even, he couldn't say that he blamed her; Potter was a terribly inept person, it was no surprise that he was a terribly inept boyfriend.

Even if that weren't the case (which it undoubtedly was), Draco couldn't imagine that anybody who fondled chained-up lycanthropic _males_ would make any girl a wonderful boyfriend.

It felt like a betrayal. On some level, he had trusted Potter, trusted him to watch over him and to do the Right Thing and to make sure the Weasel didn't poison him or torture him or pour a jar of spiders on his face the way that someone else might have – not naming anyone in particular, per se - if Ronald Weasley had been in a similar situation and Draco had certainly trusted Potter to not violate his manly virtue.

It was very off-putting. Not to mention unseemly.

Of all people, he thought that he'd at least be able to trust Potter – not because either of them particularly liked each other, but rather, because the opposite was true – Potter hated him and he still tried to protect him. That counted for something. Potter didn't like him and still he did things like take Draco shopping or try to spend time with him or sleep in the same bed with him, curling around him protectively and suddenly Draco was faced with a problem that he never thought he'd ever have – the ridiculous notion that maybe Harry Potter liked him a bit too much.

That was completely out of nowhere, and did not deserve any examining at all.

He missed school. He never thought he would. But he missed a simpler time, when his loyalties were clear and all he ever had to worry about was winning Quidditch games and the House Cup and how Potter was going to ruin his life that day. He missed Professor Snape's lectures. He even missed detention.

But that all belonged to a Hogwarts that nobody could return to, a Hogwarts before Dumbledore died and before Professor Snape fled and before Draco had let the Death Eaters in, before the fire and before the battle.

He missed his parents. He missed Professor Snape. He missed his friends.

Vince and Greg hadn't known what they were doing. They had been trained all their life to follow without questioning, they had followed him at school and he had ultimately led them to a dead end. He didn't even blame Vince for what he did. In the end, Vince was just scared. They had all been so scared.

It seemed like a lifetime ago now. Now he didn't know where anybody was, not Greg and not Pansy and not even Zabini.

_As of this report, no bodies have yet been found. _

He could leave and he could find them, he could do it. He should leave. He could go out alone, truly alone in this world for the very first time, without parents or friends or teacher, without House or family name, without even warden and keeper, and find them, those very few he had left in the world, and maybe, with them, find the place where he really belonged.

He stared at his face in the cold glass of the bathroom mirror; dishevelled, pale, thin – the eyes of somebody he did not recognise. He looked deep into a stranger's eyes and tried to find the monster there. Monsters had no place in this world.

His reflection had nothing to say to him.

_Citizens are warned to keep a sharp lookout for suspicious activity, to avoid going out alone at night, lock doors and windows, and to set up protection wards around the home on nights of or near the full moon. Please contact your nearest local Auror Department if you have any information on the possible whereabouts of the missing persons._

_

* * *

_

"Come on, Malfoy, come _out,"_ Ron pleaded with the closed and silent door. "You can't stay in the toilet all day, other people need to use it too, you know!"

The door remained silent, unanswering.

"Do you think...do you reckon he's gone and drowned himself?" Ron asked, with a mixture of both horror and hopeful expectation on his face. "No, no, that would be too much to ask for – Ow! Hermione, you hit hard!"

"Ron," Hermione said sternly, "Be nice."

"I was only _joking_," Ron said reproachfully, "_he_ would know I didn't mean it. And drowning in my toilet is something I wouldn't want to happen to anybody, not to mention that I'd probably have to be the one cleaning it up."

"Draco," Hermione said, "I know...I know you're probably shaken by the transformation, but you have to come out so we can make sure you're okay. We're all worried about you -"

"I'm not," Ron supplied helpfully. Hermione glared at him.

"_Everybody_ is worried about you," she began again.

Harry watched Hermione and Ron plead with the door. He wished he could help, only he didn't have a thing to say.

Even George was being more productive than Harry was, down on the floor on his knees, stuffing doggy treats through the crack at the bottom of the door.

"Ooh, that's a good idea," Ron said, "We should probably slide a water dish underneath there, too. Although I suppose there's lots of water in a toilet..."

"Harry," Hermione turned to him and said, "Harry, you have to talk to him. I know we have to give him space, but he's been in there for hours, and we have no idea how he's faring..."

"What do you expect me to do?" Harry asked.

"I...I don't know. He's not responding to Ron or me. Maybe he'll respond to you."

"What makes you think that?" Harry snapped. "It's not like he and I have a special bond or anything- not like he likes me more than any of you or anything -"

"Whoa, Harry," Ron interjected. "We just want you to try and talk to him, not _marry_ him. Oh, Merlin, yuck. I think I just made myself throw up a little."

He felt ridiculous for objecting like that. But they were looking at him with all this expectation in their eyes, the way everybody always turned to him to make things better, and where had that unreasonable expectation even come from? "Just don't expect it to be any different."

He cleared his throat and knocked lightly on the door.

"Malfoy," he said, "Malfoy, um, come out. We have to talk to you…and stuff."

Silence.

"Come on," Harry said gruffly, knocking harder, already feeling both stupid and impatient. "Open the door. Come out."

"Harry, I don't think that's very effective," Ron said.

"Seriously," remarked George from his position on the floor, peering through the crack under the door. "That couldn't convince convince a worm to come out of the ground in the rain. Or a bat to come out at night. Or Dumbledore to come out during International Open Day of the World Wizard Wrestling and Snogging Foundation, Merlin rest his soul."

"I get the point," Harry said. "Do you mind getting out of the way, then?"

George shifted over a couple of inches, enough for Harry to squeeze in.

"I mean I need to talk to him privately," Harry said, which earned him about another twelve inches or so of space, which he supposed was the best that he was going to get.

He leaned in close to the door, cupped both hands around his mouth, and felt like an idiot.

"Malfoy," he began, and then lowered his voice; they were all watching him intently, wanted to hear him utter some magical words that would make Malfoy just suddenly decide to come out and join the world again. He might have been a wizard, and he might have defeated Voldemort, and he might have saved the world, but he wasn't a miracle worker. He wanted to scream at them all to leave, he wanted just one single moment where he wasn't always doing the wrong thing, he wanted Malfoy to just open the damn door.

"Look, Malfoy," he said quietly, "I can't imagine how you're feeling. But maybe part of you is feeling…awkward…about what happened. And I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I honestly don't know what came over me. I know that sounds moronic."

He sighed, and leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes as he admitted what he didn't even want to admit to himself. "You trusted me to be there for you, and I think I…I really disappointed you."

It felt like every single word was being dragged out of him with hooks, as he cast his line into the deep dark ocean of himself, of all those things he didn't want to even see, never mind say. "You probably feel really betrayed. I know it was wrong. I wish I could explain it. I wish I knew how. But it's like…it's like what you said, about the…other stuff. It's like you can't control it. And I forgot about it. About _that._ I didn't talk about it again. If I can forgive that, why can't you forgive me?

"I'm sorry for what happened, I don't know how or why it happened, I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't want to do it. I don't even think I knew what I was doing. I guess that's not an excuse. It doesn't change what happened. Maybe it's too much to ask for your forgiveness right now, but…Just please, please come out so that we can at least talk about it."

"God, please, just say something. Anything. Just give me a sign that you're all right."

The door remained closed and silent. After all that, after baring himself raw, nerves and feelings all, laying himself open like some creature flayed with insides all exposed, Malfoy still had the nerve to be angry with him.

"I know you can hear me, so…just say something, all right? You don't even need to come out. I know you don't want to face people right now. But just…don't do this. Please."

Again there was nothing but silence. How dare Malfoy treat him this way, how dare he ignore him – but of course he would, he was Malfoy. Malfoy didn't care about anybody but himself, Malfoy didn't care about how hard Harry was _trying, _didn't care about how he, just by existing, had fucked up Harry's entire life. Knowing Malfoy, he was probably sitting on the other side of the door, gloating, laughing it up, sneering at Harry's heartfelt apologies and making snide remarks. He was probably enjoying this. He had probably even perpetrated everything on _purpose. _The sadistic prick.

Harry knew there was good reason why he had hated Malfoy for so long.

And of course the door remained closed still, mocking him with cruel and silent laughter.

He didn't have to take this. He had been patient and gracious enough.

"Fine!" he shouted, slamming one hand hard down against the door, pounding it so loudly that the whole frame shook. "Stay in there, for all I care. I hope you rot and die in there!"

"I _think_ he has to die before he rots," George pointed out, in what he probably thought was a helpful manner. It wasn't.

* * *

Several hours later, everybody was still camped out outside of the toilet door. Ron and Hermione had set up a chess game where Ron was trying very, very hard to let Hermione beat him by a very narrow margin. Every now and then the contemplative silence was broken by a sharp _squeak_ as George had moved on to stuffing chew toys underneath the crack of the door.

"I'm sick of this," Harry declared, marching up to the door, wand in hand. "I can't believe we didn't just do this in the first place."

"Harry, what are you going to—" Hermione began in alarm.

"_Alohomora!" _Harry cried. The doorknob sparked and clicked unlocked. He grabbed the door and flung it open wide, revealing a very distraught-looking Malfoy sitting on the bathroom floor, surrounded by various treats and toys.

Malfoy was too shocked to move, too shocked to speak, and for a moment, Harry felt as if he had intruded on some deeply private moment – as if he had thrown open the door and walked in on Malfoy naked, or even using that room for one of its initial, intended purposes. As if he had walked in on him crying in the girl's room all over again. They really had to stop meeting like this.

Then the silence shattered.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you, you freak?" Malfoy leapt to his feet and screamed.

He couldn't help but take exception to that indignation. Such indignation! "_I'm_ the freak?" Harry shouted back. "I'm not the one who feels the need to go and cry in toilets when I'm depressed!"

It was perhaps a bad reaction, but old habits die kicking and screaming.

Just as Malfoy's hand, out of instinct, went to grab a wand that wasn't there. His fingers closed around nothing and he let out a curse that was somewhere between profanity and a howl of frustration. "No, you're right," he agreed, panting slightly already, "You're far, far better. You'd much rather try and _murder_ people in toilets!"

"Easy for you to say," Harry shot back, "you'd much rather try and murder people, period!"

"Actually, I think you're both rather kind of fucked up," George said to nobody in particular. Nobody paid him any attention.

"It's always about control with you, isn't it?" Malfoy's body was tense with rage. "You can't let people alone, you can't let _me_ alone...You're so obsessed with being the bloody hero all the bloody time, you're incapable of allowing people to just be people, you have to control every little thing, keep me locked up in here like some goddamn dog on a leash –"

"Last I checked," Harry retorted, "you were the one locking yourself up!"

"And why do you suppose that is? Did it occur to you, that just maybe, I did it to _get away from you_!"

Just hearing those words was just as bad as getting slapped in the face so hard that his teeth rattled in his head. He wanted to punch Malfoy, again. He wanted to take that stupid blond head by its stupid fine hair and smash that stupid, arrogant, hateful, _ungrateful _face into the floor. He wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp. He was standing so close to Malfoy now that he could reach out, so so easily, his arm jerked and twitched, he could already hear the satisfying smack of skull meeting wood.

He shoved Malfoy back, hard, so that his back hit the half-open door.

"Get away from me then! You think I like having you as my burden, looking after you, taking care of you, ruining my li—"

Malfoy, of course, chose this moment to shove him back, so that he bit down on his tongue, hard. He tasted blood.

"Oh yes, such a _terrible_ burden. Poor little Potter. My heart bleeds for you. I mean, the situation couldn't possibly get any worse for you, I can't imagine _anyone_ whose life could be even more horrendous than that—oh wait! Perhaps I can!"

"Shove it, Malfoy!" Harry responded, with another hard slam into the doorframe. Malfoy didn't even wince, and of course shoved him right back.

"How dare you even talk like that, after what you did to me –" Malfoy snarled.

Harry could have shaken him. Just grabbed him and shaken him like you weren't supposed to do to babies. How was that even fair? He had even apologised, really, truly apologised, and Malfoy had just sat there, soaking up every word...

"What _I_ did to you? What about what _you_ did to _me?_ What about everything I've _done _for you?"

"Do you want me to grovel? To simper and thank you, is that what you'd like?" Malfoy grabbed his wrists and dug his nails in, pulling him close as his face made a sick parody of gratitude. "Oh, _thank you_, oh Harry Potter, for being ever so _good _to me, for taking advanta—"

"I _saved you_!" Harry shouted into his face. As if the louder he said it, the closer he said it, the more likely it would be for Malfoy to realise it. As if it were simply a matter of audibility. _I saved you_, reverberating through the house, for all to hear, in front of their audience, their witnesses, all the inhabitants of the house, in front of God, let everybody know - Malfoy owed him everything.

Venomously, Malfoy spat, "I wish you hadn't."

There it was, out in the open. Words that, once said, couldn't be taken back, hanging in the air now that they were breathed into existence, now that everything he had been thinking was proven true.

Malfoy's face was very close, white and pinched and pale. "I didn't ask for this, to be saved, didn't ask to be living with you and your Weasleys in this pathetic hovel, didn't ask to be kept as your little pet, you're sick, you're bloody disgusting—"

"Would you rather go back to the hospital, then?" Harry hissed.

So there was the flash of fear that he had been looking for – the minute, fleeting glance of panic that skittered across pale features so quickly it almost was never there. Harry had seen it, though, and allowed himself to have a moment's satisfaction, just as fleeting – a quicksilver dart of warmth.

Malfoy's voice was icy. "Are you _threatening_ me?" His nails were digging in, harder, but Harry glared back, gritted his teeth. He relished the pain, relished the idea of twisting Malfoy's arm clean out of its socket.

"Someone clearly needs to be reminded of his options!"

"Well it depends," Malfoy said, changing his tone, a cruel twist of his lips masquerading as a smile. "Will I be free from perverts who molest my unconscious body there?"

"Oh, fucking bite me!" Potter spat at him, violently breaking away, wrenching his arms back.

Only Malfoy didn't let go. "Gladly," he replied, and with uncommon strength he pulled Harry's wrist up to his mouth.

Then he bit.

It wasn't so much that it hurt, getting bitten. Harry didn't even scream. Of course, he had faced the Dark Lord, and he had never screamed, and he had watched people die, and he had never screamed, and he had even faced death, and not once had he screamed.

The sound that came out of his mouth then, was of course a mixture of shock and pain and surprise, and more the surprise than even the pain, that jolt of horror at the sight of Malfoy latched on to his wrist with a smear of ruby red blood staining his pale mouth.

The pain was sharp and bright. White human teeth breaking the skin, trying to sink into the muscle, trying to sink so deep they would scrape against bone. For a horrifying moment, he swore that they did, could almost feel the scratch of bone against bone...

A high-pitched, girlish scream broke the air in the room. For a moment Harry was afraid that that was the sound coming out of his mouth. It was very fortunate, then, that this sound actually came out of Ron.

And then it wasn't just Ron crying out or him making that noise but Hermione was screaming, too, yelling at Malfoy to stop and at Ron to do something—

"Ron! Don't just stand there and stare! He could be hurting him!"

"Ron! Ron, do you hear me? George, we need to separate them, George!"

Hermione threw up her hands in the air. "All of you are useless!" she declared, and then walked up to Malfoy, grabbed his shoulder and yanked, literally prying the two of them apart.

There was barely any resistance, meaning that either Hermione had developed Herculean strength or that Malfoy really didn't intend to snap his teeth through his vein in an effort to kill him.

"Draco, what has gotten into you?" Hermione was saying, "And Harry –"

"H-Harry, you're b-bleeding!" Ron interrupted, turning pale. "Oh my God, that's your b-blood..."

Indeed he was. Not too badly, but his wrist hurt like hell and blood was filling up the indentations left by teeth, tiny little dark pits welling up with dark red, and it probably looked much worse than it was.

Harry just stared at then wound, unable to believe that that had just happened.

Malfoy was panting, and with one hand he wiped the back of his mouth, spreading the smear of bright red across his lips and over one cheek. He looked as if his mouth had been slashed.

"You're bleeding all over the carpet," George observed. "Mum probably wouldn't like that."

"The blood is all over the carpet…" Ron repeated faintly, "and your wrist…And there's so, so much of it…Oh God."

Then it was Ron's turn to lock himself in the toilet.

"Everybody just calm down," Hermione said loudly, although it occurred to Harry that everybody else was actually fairly calm, himself included. She took Harry's bleeding wrist in her hand, and pointed her wand at it. "_Episkey!"_

The tip of her wand glowed, and so did the edges of the wound. Harry felt a vague warm feeling at the site of injury. And then the glow faded. Nothing happened. He continued to bleed.

Hermione frowned, and repositioned her wand. "_Episkey!" _

The glowing again, that warm feeling again, and then...nothing again. It didn't look like a deep wound, but the blood was happily oozing out and staining the carpet. Realization dawned in Hermione's eyes and she cast Malfoy a look of horror. "Malfoy, how could you – never mind that – George, get me a towel!"

"What is it?" Harry asked as Hermione wrapped the towel tight around his wrist and held tight, applying direct pressure. It didn't hurt, not really. The way that Hermione grabbed his wrist and _squeezed_ as she wrapped the towel around it probably hurt more. "Why isn't it working?"

"Because it's a werewolf bite, Harry. It's venomous, cursed, werewolf saliva," Hermione replied curtly- every word was sharp, punctuated with a harsh tightening of the makeshift bandage. "I hope you're happy, Malfoy, you've just scarred Harry for life!"

"Strangely," Malfoy said, cleaning off the last bit of blood from his mouth, "I do seem to feel a lot better."

"Yes," George said, turning to him, "but what did it taste like?"

* * *

There wasn't a good conversation in the world, Harry thought, that could possibly begin with the words, "I've been meaning to discuss something with you for a long time."

"What happened to your arm, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Nothing," Harry answered quickly. "I, um, banged it...into a door."

"You really ought to be more careful," said Mr. Weasley, "you're lucky it wasn't your wand arm." He took a sip from his rocks glass, filled almost to the brim with amber liquid, no ice. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen Mr. Weasley drink before, but he never had really spent much time with Mr. Weasley.

And then again, it was three in the afternoon.

"Anyway," Mr. Weasley continued, "this is really about Draco Malfoy."

"What? No it isn't!" Harry interjected quickly, lest anyone suspect anything. Mr. Weasley gave him a slightly puzzled look at this sudden outburst, and Harry realised that he had no idea what he was talking about. "I mean, er, what?"

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?"

"Yes. No. I mean...I'm all right. I'm just a little on edge, I guess."

"Yes, on edge," Mr. Weasley nodded. "That's a perfect way to put it. I feel I've been on edge myself for a long time now, and the fact that we have Lucius Malfoy's son living under our roof has done nothing to help it, really."

Harry bristled. He couldn't help it; a brief prickling sensation of irritation swept over his skin. He understood Mr. Weasley's sentiment, he even sympathised with it. They had lost loved ones, they had lost family. Mr. Weasley had only recently buried his own son. How could you ever soothe a grief so deep?

Only he had never really dreamed of equating Draco Malfoy with his father. He was actually even a little pathetic, by comparison. Draco lacked the finesse and cold precision of his father; he lacked his confidence and his ruthlessness. Lucius Malfoy was a murderer; he had been responsible for the slaughter of innocents, even if it was not by his own hand, although Harry was certain that his hands had never been free of blood. He thought nothing about possibly leading an eleven-year-old girl to her demise.

Draco, nasty as he was, ultimately could not kill a man, not even an old, frail one, whose death would have been easy and would have brought him untold glory.

As similar as they looked, they were different creatures entirely. Lucius Malfoy had toted the Death Eater party line, had been Voldemort's right hand man. He took the Mark knowing full well what it meant, what it entailed, and he had been proud to serve right up until the end, when it looked like they were no longer on the winning team.

Harry remembered what Draco had looked like when he had been taken to Malfoy Manor – he had looked so miserable, thin and hungry and frightened. He had looked so young compared to everybody else, and Harry was reminded that they were the same age, both of them caught up in something that was so much bigger than them, only at least Harry had understood what he had been getting into. He had known the terrifying enormity of every step, the gravity of every move that he would make, he had known the steep prices that he might eventually have to pay. He had been prepared. Harry had spent his whole life getting prepared for it...although he supposed that they both had, in a funny way.

He had pitied Draco, that day.

"Now I'm not saying that anybody deserves what happened to Malfoy Sr.," said Mr. Weasley, possibly mistaking Harry's expression of distaste. "Merlin forbid, that's a truly unfortunate mess...but still, that was a lengthy Azkaban sentence I had been looking forward to being a part of, if you know what I mean. It's a real shame.

"I suppose you do have to feel a bit sorry for the boy, after what happened to his parents," Mr. Weasley continued, blithely. "But pity can only take you so far. He's a Deatheater _and_ a werewolf." He shuddered and shook his head. "A right mess of things we've gotten ourselves into, eh Harry? We were fools not to remember that little pearl of wisdom about never inviting evil into your house – it's just asking for trouble."

"He's...not evil," Harry found himself mumbling.

"It's admirable you're trying to redeem him," Mr. Weasley said. "Really it is. But even you must admit, Harry, that it's somewhat of a lost cause. I'm sure you know the popular old saying, the faloofruit never wiggles too far from its falooroots."

Harry looked at him blankly.

"That boy is what we call a bad seed," Mr. Weasley explained, "and with the new onset of this illness, he will only get worse and worse. You ought to keep an eye out for our Hermione, you know how they are about the Muggleborn-"

"Malfoy and Hermione get on just fine," Harry suddenly snapped. He didn't mean to say it like that, not really, it just came out that way. "In fact, far better than Malfoy and I get along, on most days," he added, in clipped tones.

"Ah," said Mr. Weasley, clearing his throat. "I don't mean to...forget myself. I can understand that you boys have become...somewhat friends –"

"We're not friends," Harry corrected him, a tad brusquely. His arm stung.

Mr. Weasley looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear that, my boy. I mean, there must be limits to even your kindness..."

"What are we trying to talk about, Mr. Weasley?" Harry sighed. He suddenly felt very tired. Malfoy still wasn't speaking to anybody and especially not Harry; he had locked himself up somewhere and Harry was actually hoping that he'd stay there a long, long time.

Arthur Weasley took a sip from his glass and then looked earnestly into Harry's face. "I might as well be honest with you, Harry. I don't think this situation with Mr. Malfoy is working out. We're happy to have you, Harry, you know that, especially after all you've done – for us, for this family, for...everyone, you know..."

"Don't mention it," Harry mumbled, sincerely meaning it.

"Right. So I'm happy to host any little refugee you feel the need to take in, but not _him. _Maybe when you have children one day, Harry, you'll understand – I need to protect them, my wife, my boys – especially George – and my little Ginevra...Malfoy is a threat to that. To our safety, to my home. I tried to give it a chance, I honestly, truly did, but I cannot in good conscience allow this to go any longer, not when he is such a danger – to others and himself."

"Well, he's not _dangerous, _not really," Harry insisted. "The werewolf thing he can't help, but he's still just...you know, normal, other than that."

"What did you say happened to your arm, again?" Mr. Weasley asked, as if with mild curiosity. "Walked into a door, was it?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbled. "It was, um. A door."

"I see," Mr. Weasley nodded grimly. He lowered his voice, "Look, Harry, if you want, you could take him and go somewhere else, somewhere safe for the two of you, I am more than confident in your abilities to take care of yourself. I would be happy to help pay for your lodgings, even. I don't want you to feel like I'm kicking you out, you know you're always welcome here – you're like another son to me. In fact, if you didn't want to leave, maybe you could just send him away—"

"That's not fair!" Harry protested, harsher than he meant it to be. "He hasn't done anything wrong. You can't even prove that he's all that dangerous, we had the situation under control and all he did was wreck one lousy bed, _which we fixed._ He's not a monster, he's a human being!"

Mr. Weasley was taken aback; he looked as if Harry had actually dared to reach out and hit him, he was in such shock over being spoken to in such a manner. For a moment Harry almost regretted his little outburst – almost, if he didn't actually believe it.

"That's all well and good, Harry," Mr. Weasley finally said, after a gulp of his drink. "I hope you have as strong convictions about protecting my family as you do about the Malfoy boy. I hope you're prepared to be there, then, when one day the chains don't hold, or when you make one little mistake, or when he betrays us all and hurts us anyway...I hope you're prepared to give my child back to me when I have to arrange for another funeral. I hope you're prepared to heal another permanently disfigured face. He hasn't done anything wrong _yet_, Harry, so he should stay with us, in our home, until he does?"

"But you can't prove that he will—"

"Can you prove that he won't?"

That rendered Harry silent for a moment. No, he couldn't prove it. He couldn't prove a single damn thing. But how to explain a gut feeling, an innate knowledge, a sense of surety deep within that Malfoy was not like that, Malfoy could not be like that, when even he didn't believe it himself half the time?

"Well, as much as I appreciate your sadly feeble attempts to defend my honour, Potter, I have to say that Mr. Weasley is right," said a familiar drawl from behind them.

"Merlin!" Arthur Weasley jumped, one hand clutching his chest.

"How long have you been there?" Harry demanded. Of course_ he_ would come out now, at the worst possible moment, when Harry was in the midst of talking about him. It seemed that Malfoy's special radar for Situations That Would Make Potter Miserable was still very much intact, despite whatever else may have been damaged.

Malfoy shrugged. "Not long."

"What have you heard?"

"Everything."

Arthur Weasley flushed bright red, the way that Ron did when he was flustered, all the way to the roots of his hair.

"Ah, Draco..." he began, "I never meant for you to hear that. I...I didn't mean much of it...Just the ramblings of a worried old man. Please don't take it the wrong way...I...I understand that your situation is very difficult..."

Harry felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Mr. Weasley. Malfoy was looking at him in that supercilious way he had, that he had seemed to learn from his father, as if the person addressing him wasn't even worthy of being the dirty rag his house elf would use to wipe slug slime off his shoe. It was a look that Harry had seen work even on adults and authority figures. Only the most confident were lucky enough to escape unfazed; Mr. Weasley was withering beneath it now, stammering excuses and attempting to explain himself, the way he once had to, to Lucius Malfoy. Harry did not envy his position.

Finally Malfoy seemed to take pity on him – after several unnecessary minutes of grovelling, of course. "There's no need for you to explain yourself to me. Actually, I understand. The thing is, I agree with you..."

"You...do," Mr. Weasley said, uncertain that this admission wasn't actually a trap for his further humiliation.

"You do?" Harry echoed, unsure what Malfoy was playing at.

Malfoy simply nodded. "It should come as no surprise to either of you that this living situation isn't exactly ideal on my end, either. And Mr. Weasley is correct. I _am_ unpredictable, due to my current...condition, and this in conjunction with my...less than savoury background...can't really be confidence-inducing. Perhaps the only solution is that I should leave."

"If...if you really think so," Harry said slowly.

"I do," Malfoy replied emphatically.

"Well," Harry offered, "I suppose that we could go to my house on Grimmauld Place – it'll need some fixing up, of course, to make it more livable –"

"Wait, wait, wait," Malfoy started, "who extended an invitation to _you?"_

Harry stared at him in disbelief. "You mean you want to leave _by yourself?"_

"That was rather the point, yes," Malfoy replied crossly. "How many times have I said that I hate it here, that I can't stand living with you—"

"Including today?" Harry considered this carefully. "About 986, I think."

Malfoy scowled. "Don't be funny. That's my job. You, on the other hand, are pathetically unequipped for it, unless we count your face and hair, which, while hilarious to look at, are cheap and easy gags at best."

"Say what you want, Malfoy, but that doesn't change the fact that you're not going anywhere without me."

"Remember that little _discussion_ we had earlier? About how you're a complete control freak? I think it applies here, wouldn't you say so? Here, Potter, let me simplify it for you: _I don't want to be around you anymore._"

Fucking ungrateful brat, that's what Malfoy was. And had always been.

"So what's your plan, then? Where the hell would you even go?" Harry challenged, stepping closer to Malfoy. Mr. Weasley's chair shuffled against the carpet as he pushed himself back; he was watching the both of them, wide-eyed and speechless. Harry didn't even care that he had to see all this.

Malfoy laughed. A sharp, cruel sound. Harry remembered when he had hated how Malfoy laughed. "Exactly."

"Don't be so bloody stupid."

"I'll go anywhere! Anywhere but here! The world is my quivering live flesh to be devoured raw, or whatever."

"And I'm sure you'll find it easy to get by. You have no wand. You have no money. You have no—"

The word _family_ was almost formed on Harry's lips. Malfoy's grey eyes glittered, as if daring him to say it, spit it, prove that St. Potter really was that bad of a person, after all.

"—no place to stay," Harry finished. "You don't even have any wolfsbane potion. What exactly do you plan to do? Live on the streets? Steal?"

"I always thought I'd make a dashing knave, making my own fortune on nothing but the sharpness of my own wits. I have street smarts and good looks, I'll somehow manage to survive."

"Malfoy," Harry said, "You can't even stand the idea of wearing second-hand clothing."

"Of course not," Malfoy replied, "don't you know that's how disease is spread?"

Harry shook his head with disgust. "Look, as far as the Ministry is concerned, I'm your legal guardian. I enjoy it about as much as you do. But there's nothing either of us can do about it, there's nothing else you can do, you need -"

Again Harry abruptly cut himself off. He was appalled at himself. Where was his mind?

He had almost said, _me._

"What?" Malfoy demanded. "What is it that I need so badly, Oh Wise Anticipator of My Every Need?"

"What I meant to say was, you need to stay _here,_" Harry corrected himself. "There is no other choice."

"Good luck keeping me here, then," Malfoy shot back. "I suppose you'd be willing to fight me and drag me back if I were to walk out that door right now?"

"No, of course not," Harry replied. "Because you wouldn't get very far before the Aurors hunted you down with that Tracing Charm you have on you, and they'd drag you straight back here for me. Or maybe they'd think that you were a safety risk, possibly unstable, maybe even dangerous, because you tried to escape, and they'd take you directly to the locked ward at St. Mungo's. Or maybe they'd think you were a criminal for resisting arrest, and send you for a night or two in Azkaban. Do any of those options sound pleasant enough to you?"

He would have expected Malfoy to splutter and swear, he wouldn't have been surprised if Malfoy had spat and thrown something at him, at anybody. He would have found it normal if Malfoy had let out a variety of creative and painful-sounding curses.

Instead of any of those things, however, Malfoy stayed silent. He pressed his lips together, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

Arthur Weasley scooted his chair further back, as if bracing himself for an imminent explosion.

Harry braced himself as well, holding his breath. Malfoy was visibly trembling, and, if it were possible, he seemed to turn even paler, almost white.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped and sharp. "Of course. Of course that's how it is," was all he said, before he turned on his heel and exited the room.

Malfoy was clearly so deeply upset that Harry didn't even have the heart to ask him, 'Going back to your toilet, Moaning Malfoy?', a line that he had been waiting to use ever since he had come up with it several hours ago.

"Harry, my boy, perhaps you could keep...all of this between the two of us," Mr. Weasley said, finally, staring at the door, as if expecting Malfoy to come bursting back in at any second.

"Of course, of course," was all Harry could say.

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

"Is everyone in this house so completely socially incompetent that no one understands when someone needs to be _left alone?_" Draco shouted.

The knocking continued. "Or perhaps you're too thick-headed to understand basic English."

Another knock. Idiots. He was trapped in a house full of idiots, and there was no escape and no contingency plan. Draco felt a headache coming on.

"Potter, if you're here to make another 'sincere apology,' I'm telling you right now that you can take it and shove it all the way up your ar—"

"This is not Potter," a deep, resonant voice answered. "Mr. Malfoy, open the door."

The unfamiliar voice surprised him so much that he actually did open the door. A tall, regal man stood before him, and although Draco knew that it was not possible for the man to actually be that tall nor was his room that small, the man seemed to fill up the doorway.

"Mr. Malfoy, I presume," the man boomed. Draco nodded, and extended his hand out of social reflex, only to find it clasped in an iron grip. "Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Kingsley Schacklebolt, Auror and current Acting Minister for Magic."

He recognised the name, and only vaguely, the face. Occasionally he had heard Father complain about having to attend Auror functions, where he had had to make nice to pathetic Half-bloods like Schacklebolt, whose work even involved lowering himself to the status of a Muggle, and living amongst them. 'Dressing as they dress, eating at their table, even _serving _them, on bended knee,' Father had said, voice heavy with disdain. 'Can you imagine, Draco? The man knows not the meaning of shame.'

And this man, whom Father had so often derided, was now their acting Minister for Magic.

Suddenly it all made sense, like gears clicking into place. Draco knew where he had seen him before: at the final battle, a night that he would have very much liked to forget, and had mostly blocked from his memory - fighting against his father, his mother, his aunt. He had seen him working for the Ministry of Magic when they had come to Hogwarts, and he had seen him before when he had been forced to go on a Death Eater raid with Father. This was the face of the enemy, this was the opposite side, he was one of the good guys – and the good guys always won.

He fought the urge to scream and lash out at him. Years of etiquette training made polite societal niceties almost an involuntary response, however, and Father had especially emphasised the deferential treatment towards authority figures – particularly those of powerful political standing. "Mr. Schacklebolt," Draco said smoothly, "The pleasure is all mine. And to what do I owe the graciousness of your presence?"

"Serious matters, Mr. Malfoy," Schacklebolt said. "May I come in?"

"Oh, yes, please do," Draco replied, inviting him with a grand, sweeping gesture, as if he were showing off the luxurious tea room of the Manor and not this shabby little bedroom in the Weasley den. "Please, make yourself comfortable," gesturing to one of the two footstools that the twins' old room had to offer.

Schacklebolt, without even batting an eye, regally took a seat on one of the footstools, which were so ill-equipped for his size that his knees seemed to almost reach his chin. Draco took the other footstool and stretched out his legs.

"As you may already be aware, Mr. Malfoy," Schacklebolt began, giving no impression of any discomfort whatsoever, despite the fact that he was nearly folded in half, "last night there was an outbreak of werewolf attacks all over the country."

"Yes, I am aware," said Draco, "but I assure you that I am an innocent; I can in no way be implicated in such grisly affairs." He made a nod over to the chains, still attached to the bed. "As you can see, I was already rather...indisposed."

Schacklebolt nodded slowly. "Yes, Mr. Potter has already vouched for you. I have not come to accuse you, Draco; rather, the purpose of this visit is more one of supplication – you see, the Ministry, and the Auror Department in particular, would like to request your help in our investigations."

"_My _help?" Draco echoed, incredulously. "What help could I possibly have to offer anyone?"

"Understand that I am sharing with you confidential information," Shacklebolt said, as he leaned in, lowering his voice. "But we have reason to believe that these were not random acts of violence. There is a pattern to the attacks, a high rate of abductions..."

"What are you saying?"

"Werewolves, throughout history, have been more or less isolated creatures, Mr. Malfoy. There have been attacks, definitely, but these are usually confined to an area – a town, a village, a certain part of the woods. They keep to themselves, for the most part. But during the rise of Voldemort we saw a sort of organization amongst Dark Creatures that we have never seen before."

Draco shuddered at the mention of Voldemort's name – he could not help it, it conjured up too many horrific images, that featureless face, those glowing red eyes, the feel of that clammy hand against his lips as he had been forced to kneel before it. But even worse than that was the mention of the Dark Creatures – _Mother and Father had had no idea, they had just returned home, they had opened the door, and then there was howling and hissing and screeching and howling and screaming, so, so much screaming..._

"...which gave evidence for the belief that, without their leader, they would eventually disband and disintegrate on their own after the defeat of the Dark Lord," Shacklebolt was saying when Draco snapped back to reality and began listening to him again. "Unfortunately, last night's round of attacks disprove this happy little theory, at least where the werewolves are concerned. The obvious culprit, of course, would be Fenrir Greyback."

"Fenrir Greyback," Draco murmured.

"Yes," intoned Shacklebolt. "The werewolf who attacked you, and turned you."

_Dripping teeth and rancid breath and claws down his skin, ripping him open, ripping his insides open, couldn't see because his eyes were wet with tears and blood, blood so much blood and pain _

"I remember," Draco said.

"Greyback was the leader of the werewolves during the war, and it would appear that they still remain an organized force. Almost a pack, if you will. We do not know his motives behind the attacks, we do not know what he desires, exactly – but we do know that he must be stopped, at all costs."

"Of course," Draco responded. "So what do you require of me?"

"This is where you are necessary, Mr. Malfoy. We have no idea of the identity of these werewolves, nor do we know their whereabouts. As a werewolf, and one created by Greyback himself, you will be able to track them down, even to infiltrate the pack, and run reconnaissance for us until we can capture them and bring them to justice."

"You want me to run as a double agent for you."

"Essentially, yes."

"And what reason do I have to assist a government that wants to incarcerate me, a system that has failed me, and law enforcement that could not protect the ones I loved?"

"We would see that you would be compensated, of course."

"Would you remove the Tracing Charm?"

"How else would we be able to keep track of you when you are undercover and in need of help?"

"Would you let me live on my own?"

"You require a support network, and supervision, especially when undertaking such a dangerous task."

"Would I at least be able to leave this godforsaken place?"

"That is an issue for you and Mr. Potter to discuss, not you and I. However, this is one of the safer places that you can be."

Draco nearly spat. "You want me to risk life and limb for you, and yet you still want to keep me on a choke chain, under lock and key."

"That is not true, Mr. Malfoy. The Ministry is prepared to make compromises with you. For example, perhaps we could unfreeze some of the Malfoy funds."

This made Draco laugh; a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Money! You want to offer me money in return for my life and servitude. And my own money at that, money that should rightfully belong to me, that you have _seized_ from me, under your own arbitrary laws."

"Some money can afford you many freedoms," Shacklebolt replied calmly. "For one, you would no longer need to rely on Mr. Potter for all your expenses."

It was a meagre pittance, what the Ministry was offering him, and what was even worse was that Shacklebolt was pretending as if it were _generous, _as if Draco should have fallen to his knees and kissed the ground in sheer gratitude at the benevolence of the offer. It made him feel sick to his stomach.

What had the Ministry ever done for him, ever done for his family? Where were those who had sworn to protect them when they had been attacked? He could not trust the Ministry, could not rely on its empty lies. It was easy for them to make demands now, now that they were on the winning side. History was always written by the victors, Draco had grown up knowing that.

"Tell the Ministry that they can take my money out of the Gringotts account, oil it up, and shove it in every orifice that they have. Or burn it all, I don't care. I will _never_, _never_ betray myself through subservience to a useless and shoddy government that has always betrayed me."

"Draco," Schacklebolt intoned, grabbing onto his arm. "Please reconsider. It would be most advantageous for you to help the Ministry."

Draco drew himself up and gave Shacklebolt an unwavering, icy glare – a pure Malfoy trait, carefully cultivated and bred, passed down from generation to generation - it was cold enough to transform the hottest tropics into an Arctic tundra. "It's a conflict of interests, you see. Mainly between my interest that I would rather gnaw my own arm off and choke on a bit of bone fragment before I'd become a Ministry lapdog, and my interest that I prefer my limbs whole and completely attached, thanks."

He wrenched his arm away from the man, never once breaking eye contact. "Don't pretend to be my friend when we both know very well that you are anything but."

"I see. It is very unfortunate that you feel that way, Mr. Malfoy, as your cooperation would be invaluable to us and we are prepared to reward you. Well, here is my card, in case you change your mind. You may very well do."

"Then I'll see to it that I shan't," Draco replied curtly. He made no move to take the proffered card, which forced Schacklebolt to leave it on the table before exiting. Draco was only too happy to slam the door behind his retreating form. "Who does he think he is, anyway," he spat, "the Minister for Magic?" He eyed the mirror on the far wall of the room. "Don't you dare answer that."

He would rather spend a million years living in this house, he would rather administer much-needed pedicures to all the residents of Azkaban, he would rather stare at a wall and hold his breath for two hours and eventually lose consciousness and asphyxiate from his own sheer stubbornness and _die_ before lowering himself to becoming a Ministry minion.

He didn't have much of anything left, but at least he still had his pride.

* * *

As a child Draco had been fussy (of course, what else would he be) and very difficult to get to sleep. As an infant he had needed constant tending to, had needed to be rocked and soothed and sung to, to be constantly readjusted and repositioned, to have every little possible need pre-empted – tasks often left to the brigade of house elves assigned to his care.

Mother had not been a maternal woman; she had always loved him, there was no doubt of that, but she was so afraid of how little and fragile he was, she once said. He did not blame her. He didn't know what to do with babies himself, after all. But sometimes she had held him, and sometimes she had slept with him cradled to her chest, especially on nights that Father was gone, out of town or attending to Ministry business.

When he was a bit older she had liked him a great deal more. She had said he seemed so much more like a little person then, with such a personality. Still fussy and already a brat, of course, who hated to be put to bed – and so she sat with him in her beautiful velvet armchair and held him on her lap and talked to him until he fell asleep.

Together they looked at the sky, and she would name the stars and tell him the stories of their lives, Orion and Hercules, Polaris and Pegasus and Taurus, Cassiopeia and Andromeda and Scorpius. And yes, there's you, Draco, that one's yours.

The moon watched over them all; the moon helped guide the little children to sleep, she was a beacon in the night, a glowing light to steer by as they sailed on an ocean of dreams. And she was always changing her dress – sometimes thin and skinny, sometimes round and full. Once a month she disappeared, and that was what you called a new moon, because the moon needs her beauty rest too, and she piled on the blankets of night so she could sleep and become new again.

New moon tonight. The sky outside of Draco's window was inky and black, cloudy enough so that not even the stars could be seen. Every now and then faint pinpoints of light would glimmer through, as if underneath a thick gauzy curtain.

He had not left his room even for supper, which had to be left outside (and was only very narrowly rescued from a squishy fate when George offered to try and slip it to him via the normal way – that is, underneath the door).

In a newly-repaired bed he wrapped the old blanket around himself, thin and worn as it was. He wanted his mother's voice, her smile – she had smiled so little in the past year, her beautiful face drawn tight with worry lines, he had almost watched her age before his eyes. But he remembered now how happy she had been that last time, peppering his face with kisses, her own face shining wet with tears, his own face wet with her tears and his own and maybe even his father's too. That had been the happiest he had seen her in such a very long time, the happiest they had all been, but then...but then...

He wanted, suddenly, irrationally, a gentle hand on his shoulder, a warmth curled against him, protectively, in the dark.

That was ridiculous. He didn't need any of it. So he instead he squeezed his eyes shut and curled into himself, praying for no dreams at all, not even good ones – praying for sleep as black and as blank as the moonless night.

* * *

One day passed, and then another day, and then another. Draco tried not to leave his room unless absolutely necessary.

The first day he had built a barricade of chairs, propped up against the door. Had even pushed the dresser against it for a while, as if keeping out an_ Inferi_ invasion. He eventually took this down, however, because without real spells and magic it was impossible to keep anybody out who truly wanted to come in, and staring at that pile of wood just made him resent his lack of magic even more, even if the ease with which he tossed furniture aside showed that he was stronger now than he'd ever been.

It was also, not to mention, a fire hazard. Not because it was blocking the exit in case of a fire, but rather because it was really tempting to use it to start a fire.

The other reason he tore down the blockade was that it made getting to the bathroom a bloody pain in the arse. Not literally, of course.

Sometimes he slept. Often he dreamt. More often than not he awoke screaming, and sometimes he felt a presence outside the door but nobody dared to come in.

He didn't even have to lock the door, really. They were all so scared of him now; when he did leave the room the hallways were almost always mysteriously empty. Once, in his peripheral vision, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Arthur Weasley ducking into another room when he saw Draco's door opening. He passed by the room and there stood Mr. Weasley, studiously examining some hairline cracks in the wallpaper.

The only person who didn't seem to adhere to this Magically Make Oneself Disappear Rule, was, of course, who else but that irritating rule-breaker extraordinaire, Harry Potter himself.

Someone needed to tell him that they were no longer in the spacious high ceilings and castle-sized dimensions of Hogwarts, and it was pretty much logistically impossible to inconspicuously stalk someone in a house as small as the Burrow. Even if he couldn't constantly sense him (_could feel him, smell him from a mile away, always know he's there_) he'd have to either be the biggest moron in the world or blind as Trelawney to not notice Potter constantly lurking around corners. Like some sort of horrifying, scarred and myopic spook or ghoul. With bad hair and ugly, terrible glasses.

Once or twice he passed him in the hallway. There was a ridiculous feeling of being back at school again, where he had this urge to knock his shoulder against him, hard, as he passed. Of course, again, with the much smaller corridors, this tended to lose its effect – turned it from obvious deliberate malicious gesture to possible accident.

More often than not, Draco avoided acknowledging Potter's existence on this earth altogether.

He ignored that prickling sensation in the back of his mind when he felt a presence, standing just outside his door. Sometimes it would be there for only a minute or two, but sometimes it would stay even longer than that – ten minutes, fifteen. If he pressed his ear to the door he could hear the breathing on the other side, _inhale, exhale. _

He wished it would just stop.

* * *

He awoke to disembodied voices. "_A severed arm was found at the scene...however, there was no indication of a body...owner could not be identified..."_

There was a strange, tinny quality to the voice, nothing like that strange whisper that reverberated in his head every now and again.

For a moment he was certain that he had finally gone mad. After all, hearing a _voice_ was bad enough, but hearing _voices_ meant that a trip to St. Mungo's special ward was nigh unavoidable.

"_Aurors Jessome and Florrmore reported to be injured during investigation...details are not available at this time..."_

Relief when he realised it was just the radio. Unease when he realised what the radio was saying.

It seemed that lately the radio was always on. In the living room, the cauldrons bubbled and the potions stewed. Granger stood in the midst of the burbling pots, listening to the broadcasts, reading, writing, every now and then stirring.

"_In the quiet, affluent neighbourhood of Radlett, six-year-old David Falkner has gone missing. The Falkners have promised a large reward to anyone who can give information leading to the whereabouts of their son." _

"_Again we must remind citizens to take precautions – particularly after sundown. However, we have no way of knowing if this disappearance is in any way related to the other disappearances and to the werewolf attacks as of late..."_

"_Let's take some calls. Hello, Campbell on Fireplace 1? Welcome to our programme. Your thoughts?"_

"_See, what I don't understand is where Harry Potter is in all this. He's our Champion, right? Saviour and what not? What, does he think now that the Dark Lord's dead that it's already time to retire?"_

"_Now, this sort of thing really isn't Harry Potter's job...he just saved the world, you know. This sort of thing is better left to the professionals. The Auror Department is handling it."_

"_Yes! And they're doing a right fine job of it, dropping dead left and right, or getting injured or going missing while people are dying, children are missing...children! Our streets are not safe!" _

"_These are dangerous times we live in, yes. Unfortunately."_

"_Well I say if Harry Potter is so powerful and great, why doesn't HE do something about it? Or not even Harry Potter, someone else, anyone else – I say we rally together and hunt down these wolves until every last one of the bastards is good and dead!"_

"_I think that's all the time we have for today, Campbell. Thank you for calling."_

"_I'm not finished yet!"_

"_Thank you for joining us...Now, let's hear from Fireplace 2...Fireplace 2; we have Benjamin with us. Hello, and welcome to our show-"_

"_I think I have to agree with Campbell. Why isn't someone doing something about these attacks? The professionals are getting injured, I heard they found a mauled body the other day, they couldn't even identify him because the damage was so bad...Children are disappearing now? What next? Do we have to wait for children's bodies to start appearing before someone steps forward?_

"_Maybe a Hunting Party isn't such a bad idea after all...we just defeated You-Know-Who, we should not have to live in fear any longer!" _

"_Now Benjamin, we can't condone vigilante justice – for one thing, currently no one knows where the werewolves might be. For another, the average witch or wizard is more than likely to get hurt if they themselves end up in altercation with the werewolves in question..."_

"_So what are we supposed to do, then? Sit idly by while people are murdered and children are stolen? Shall we sit and do nothing?_

"_Isn't there anybody out there who can save us?"_

_

* * *

_

The house creaked at night. One of the chairs in the living room was particularly noisy. The armchair in the study also groaned and complained. The pipes clinked and clanked; the faucet in the kitchen was a bit leaky and occasionally dripped. The members of the house shifted in their beds; Mrs. Weasley tossed and turned, Ginny cried herself to sleep, George lay in his bed, not moving, Ron snored; he slept like the dead.

Draco knew all of their routines, their nightly rituals – Hermione stayed up, working and reading, had to be told several times to go to bed. He knew their morning rituals – Mr. Weasley was up at the crack of dawn, getting the paper, shaving, preparing to leave for work as soon as possible.

He knew all this without ever leaving his room. Same as he knew there was a spider spinning a web in the far corner of the ceiling, same as he could hear the soft thud, thud of a fly throwing its body against the window. A bird was building its nest in the shelter of the awning. A hornet was buzzing outside of the window.

He could hear their interactions, their elevated voices and elevated emotions, Mr. Weasley lost his temper over spilled tea, Ginny shrieked at her mother for no apparent reason, Potter slammed doors and hit the wall, George had whole arguments and shouting matches with nobody at all. The whole house was a network of sound and wires, all pulled so taut that they shivered with the vibrations.

"Are you listening to these programmes? Are you hearing what they're saying? We can't just sit around while this is going on...We need to do something."

"Harry, you can't listen to these programmes. A lot of them are just pandering to the lowest common denominator; it's sensationalist journalism. Actually, I don't think you could even call it journalism—"

"But they're calling on me _specifically, _and I just know that we can do _something..."_

"Don't you understand? They're saying whatever they can to get the highest ratings, of course they'd invoke you, maybe even try to provoke you into calling in...Harry, you can't be serious about this."

"I'm just saying it doesn't make sense, Hermione. If we can find Horcruxes, couldn't we find a den _full_ of werewolves?"

"It's not that easy, Harry! For one thing, we have no idea where they are. We don't even know where to begin looking. Secondly, it's not like werewolves are obvious – remember? With the exception of Fenrir, they look just like everybody else the rest of the time."

"Lupin had scratches all over his face-"

"So what are you suggesting, Harry? That we go up to anybody with a few scratches and demand to know if they're a werewolf or not? What if their scars or whatever are under their clothes? Should we go up to random strangers and force them to strip? You should listen to Hermione, not those radio programmes. She's right, they're absolutely rubbish."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron! I'm not suggesting that at all. But say that an investigation could be done, we could try and see where Fenrir was spotted last, maybe see if there's a pattern to the attacks, maybe interview witnesses—"

"You're basically describing what the Auror department is supposed to do!"

"Yeah? And what of it? Why can't we do that?"

"Because it's not our job! It's not _your_ job! It's no one's responsibility, it's no one's fault, and aren't you tired of having to save the world all the time? Maybe Malfoy's right, you just have to be the big hero-"

"How could you even say that, Ron? What are we supposed to do, just twiddle our thumbs and wait for someone else to take care of it? People are dying out there!"

"_Yes. _Because I don't know about you, Harry, but I've had enough death and danger in my personal life to last me for a lifetime. Maybe in a couple of years, we can go be Aurors or whatever you like, but for right now, I'd rather not have to get hurt or watch you get hurt, or watch you _die_. _Again._ I'm done with funerals."

"So what then? If I'm not supposed to do it, then who the hell is?"

"I don't know, Harry. But leave it to the Aurors. I'm begging you, please."

"Ron's right, Harry. If we have a tip we can help out, but right now, we're no better off than anybody else. I know you hate to hear it, but there's nothing you can do."

* * *

"It would be a promotion, Mum! You can't possibly expect me to be complacent in such a thankless, dead-end position forever."

"Percy, what's wrong with you? Haven't you been listening to the radio?"

"Yes, yes, you needn't worry so much about that. You know it's all just exaggeration; it's more hyperbole than news on the radio these days. I'm confident it'll be fine. Not to mention the fact that since the Auror Department is currently short-staffed, they've offered me a very handsome signing bonus."

"Don't tell your mother they're just exaggerating when even the Daily Prophet reported that they found body _parts._ Body parts! They couldn't even identify the victim!"

"Mum, calm down, you're being hysterical. Think about it; we wouldn't need to worry about money anymore. Not only would I be able to take care of myself, but our family, too...you, Dad...George..."

"We don't need you to take care of us, Percy, your Dad has always been able to provide for us just fine—"

"Provide for us? Oh yes, he has been able to provide for us quite well, hasn't he, with all the scrimping and saving we've had to do. I'm aware that we've never gone hungry, but we've certainly come close. As much as you'd like to deny it, Mum, you know it's true. Let's not forget the secondhand, thirdhand, fourth-hand clothing and school supplies. And maybe you're too happily oblivious to see the way people _look_ at you when you're so obviously impoverished, as if poverty by its very definition makes one less of a person—"

"Of course I understand! How could you even...Percy. How could you. You think I never wanted fancy designer dress robes, or jewellery, or even just to get my hair done? You think I enjoy the looks the other Ministry wives give us, or the nasty comments Narcissa Malfoy used to make? Every year, at the Ministry Christmas party, there she'd be, all decked out in her Pierre Gauthier..."

"Then we share an understanding, Mum –"

"No, you listen to me, Percy. You think it's been _easy,_ budgeting between new clothes and textbooks, or choosing whether to fix the house or to buy food. Is that it? You don't understand, maybe, that I've made a million choices, a million sacrifices. Yet we've always managed to get by, because your father and I love you, all of you, and you have no idea how hard we have worked to give you children as much as we possibly could, and it breaks my heart, Percival, it just breaks my heart, to hear you say these terrible things, I thought I raised you better than that-"

"But that's the thing, Mum! You've probably exceeded your own expectations in rearing me! You've raised me to know ambition, to know motivation and the drive to achieve my goals. I'm telling you, you don't have to make all these sacrifices anymore."

"In exchange for what, pray tell? No more little sacrifices for one big one? A little extra pocket change in exchange for my son? It's dangerous, Percy, perhaps you don't see how dangerous it is, but your mother knows. Aurors are getting _maimed _out there, and the thought of... you...Merlin, I can't even say it..."

"Mum, please, don't cry."

"You're making me cry!"

"Mum, Mum, you need to stop being so reactionary. You need to think practically. We're not simply discussing monetary matters, it's a matter of _security. _The cross-training programme they are offering is invaluable. I could easily rise to an important position in no time. Don't let your fear blind you, Mother. There's opportunity here. This could be my big chance. I'd be a fool not to take it."

"So is that what this is all about? A title? A promotion_? _Your _pride_?"

"It's not just that! You're completely missing the point! I love you, but you're a housemarm. Dad isn't going to be able to work forever. He's held the same position for over twenty years! The one time he gets anywhere it's a lip-service promotion under Scrimgeour that he didn't even keep. And then you have Charlie, who's off chasing dragons, there's Bill, who's being Bill and doing who-knows-what, Ron and Ginny haven't even graduated school, and George is broken! If anybody in this family is going to go anywhere in the world, it's me!"

"Percy, you're being unkind—"

"How is it unkind when I'm merely pointing out the truth? Don't you want a son you can actually depend on?"

"How could you say those things about your siblings? And your own father! Don't you care about your family..."

"I think the family needs me to be successful more than they need me to sensitive. You and Dad cannot continue on in this capacity, already I can see how difficult it is on you. You know George needs looking after. He's practically special needs at this point! Who knows when he'll get better – or if he'll ever get better! One day you'll be decrepit and elderly, burdened with a barely functional, damaged son! How will you expect to take care of him then, when you'll be barely able to take care of yourselves?"

"Stop it, stop it, Percy, now you're just being cruel..."

"I'm not being cruel, I'm being logical!"

"So is this what you want? To leave us all behind? To abandon us?"

"Merlin, mother! Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying? You simply can't get over that, can you? Nobody in this family can let go of this inane resentment against me – and yet, against all better judgment, I'm still trying to help all of you. I'm not leaving this time, I have the family's best interests at heart this time – why can't you understand that?"

"I...I didn't mean that way, Percy. I mean...Oh, God, your brother...I can't stand to lose you, too!"

"You're being ridiculous, Mum. You were always so overly emotional. I'm a grown man, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, and I am more than capable of looking after myself. This is what's best for the whole family, you'll see."

"Percy...I'm begging you for one last time, please, don't...think of your poor mother's heart..."

"I'm sorry, Mother. Your fears are strong, but my convictions are stronger. I'm taking the job."

* * *

The crying in the kitchen went on for a long time. It ebbed and flowed like the tide; at times almost inaudible, soft as water lapping at sand, at times loud enough to wreck a person like a ship, all splinters and despair. It was difficult to tell how long it went on for, exactly. It was difficult to tell time when there was no reason to keep time anymore. Draco watched the sun set, watched the sky darken and felt the twinges in his gut that he was beginning to associate with the rising moon. A pot on the stove boiled dry and an acrid burning odour filled the house. When supper finally arrived, it tasted as salty and bitter as the Red Sea.

His own mother had smiled at him the night that he had taken the Mark. Like a fool he had believed her. She had squeezed his shoulder and told him that she was very proud of him, and always had been, and he had been young and dumb enough to think that it was pride making her pretty blue eyes glisten so brightly.

Later that night, when he had lain in bed cradling his tender, painful left arm, he had heard strange, soft noises, very much like crying, and he had dismissed it as his own imagination. What reason was there to cry?

He had only seen his mother beg just once in his life. What he remembered most was the sound of her tears, the silk swathe of blonde hair, cascading through the air, as she threw herself at the Dark Lord's feet and begged, no, not her son, anybody but Draco, please, please, she would do _anything. _His beautiful, proud, graceful mother...on her knees, face streaked with tears and makeup. It made him sick to his stomach.

It enraged him, too. Later, after she had been denied – of course! How could she even expect the Dark Lord to show mercy for the tears and wails of a hysterical woman? – she had taken his hand and looked into his eyes, and she had pleaded with him, "_Draco, my son, my darling, seek out Severus for help, he will assist you, he will look after you—"_

He had tossed her hand aside, insulted. He had snapped at her, had she no confidence in him? The Dark Lord had chosen him, only him, especially him, had singularly entrusted him with such a weighty, important, task – nobody else. He didn't need the help of anybody else.

She had grabbed him by the robes and shaken him, didn't he understand, _horrible, ungrateful, beastly child_, this was their _punishment, all your father's fault, _it was a _death sentence_ and she was going to _lose_ him—

He had never seen his cool, collected mother look so shaken, so impassioned. So raw. It made him feel hysterical himself, as if the room they were standing in were falling to pieces all around their heads. He had shoved her off of him, he had screamed at her, stop it, shut up, he was going to take care of everything.

She had slapped him, of course. And then she had grabbed him and hugged him so tightly that his ribs ached and his lungs ached; an embrace so fierce that it was all hurt and fear, with no room for tenderness or even air.

Oh God, oh _God, _he missed her.

* * *

By now the birds were finished with their nest. The spider sat at home in its web. The fly was dead.

Draco was fairly certain that he was losing his mind.

Days blurred into nights that blurred into days that blurred into nights. Meals appeared and disappeared and reappeared. The only thing he was aware of was how, when the moon rose, it was like an itching underneath his skin.

The only indication of the passing of time was how the frustration grew and grew, the feeling of being trapped, caged. He paced; he went nowhere. Would find splinters underneath his fingernails before he realised he had been scratching at the walls – horrified at himself, he would vow to stop – he wasn't like that, he wasn't an animal...and then would later find the splinters again.

He was hearing voices. The radio and the house and the arguments that occurred almost every day that seemed like almost every hour. Then there was that strange, hoarse voice that whispered to him terrible things, tales of carnage and blood – like, how easy it would be to be free, if he just killed every member of the household. So easy, to slip out of his room at night, visit each and every one as they slumbered on, so peacefully, in their beds... and rip out their throats.

Thoughts like these made him do things that were a little crazy, like, say, hypothetically, invent an imaginary friend named Hans Franz, who only had good thoughts and did good things, only someone who was perpetually perfect and good like that reminded him too much of St. Potter, whom he currently hated – in fact, had always hated, and so Hans Franz had to die a tragic and bloody death via Roman tiger pit – and then his thoughts were back at blood again.

Sleeping was even worse. He had enough blood-soaked dreams to soak the bed and the floor and then some, blood dripping down the stairs and out the front door. Wilfully not sleeping – self-imposed insomnia – did nothing to help matters. It only made him see things. Nightmare flashes during the day when he was supposed to be fully awake. Spent three hours one afternoon stepping around the dead body in the middle of his floor that wasn't there. Spent another two trying to catch a rabbit lurking behind his bed that also didn't exist.

He was hoping, of course, that he would get so exhausted that, when he finally did pass out because his body couldn't take it anymore, he would be so physically shattered that he would not dream. This was not always the case. Sometimes, yes, he would find blissful black oblivion – the dreamless, dark sleep of the dead, perhaps. Other times, however, the nightmares were just as vivid as ever, and in his dreams he was running, running, always so tired and always never fast enough, and the smell of blood was sharp and strong in his nostrils, his hands were slick with sweat and the blood of someone he loved, and he was so tired that his body would not let him wake up.

He would say that those were the worst days, but these were all the worst days.

* * *

The bedroom door creaked open and Draco tried to remember whether he had pushed a bureau against it before going to sleep that night. He thought he had.

A shadow fell across the floor, a dark silhouette of a body in the moonlight, and slowly crossed the room. Draco pushed himself up to get a better glimpse of who would dare enter his room while he was sleeping (although he had a pretty good idea) - and instead heard the clanking of metal chains and found that his hands were bound above his head.

"Potter, what the hell?" he said, which applied to a variety of things in this situation.

Potter (for that was indeed who it was) didn't say anything, and instead approached the bed. Draco cursed and yanked hard at the chains, which made the bed frame shake and the chains rattle loudly, but didn't do much of anything else.

"The bloody hell, Potter!" Draco swore. "What are you trying to pull here?"

"It's for your own good," said Potter calmly. He sounded strange, as if slightly distracted, and his voice was deeper, rougher, than normal. Draco quickly decided that he didn't like it.

He didn't care for being chained up, either, when the full moon was still weeks away. He rattled his chains impatiently and started to drawl, "Unlike those of us with subpar intelligence, I think I'm more than capable of deciding what's for my own good, _thanks—"_ but only made it halfway through this sentence because he was cut off by his own gurgling noise. Reason for undignified noise being that Harry Potter was _touching _him.

Not pushing, not shoving, not brushing against accidentally, but honest-to-Merlin full-contact fully-purposeful _touching. _

A hand was trailing down his chest, slowly, sensuously; it found its way onto his stomach, rucking up the edge of his shirt, brushing the bare skin underneath. Oh God, there was _skin to skin contact_, this was definitely not on.

"Potter!" Draco squeaked manfully. He rattled the chains wildly to no avail. He was going to start hyperventilating if Potter kept up that careful stroking, back and forth, fingers dipping dangerously close to underneath his waistband. "Potter, what are you doing? Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Shhhh," shushed Potter, who was suddenly so close, too close, so close that Draco could feel hot breath on his neck making his whole body shudder – with disgust, of course. "Relax."

And the next words he could feel just underneath his ear, practically _kissed_ against his neck – "Don't you remember this?"

"NO!" Draco cried, jerking away. "Can't say I recall! So think I'd really appreciate it if you'd just stop it, if you wanted to scare me you're extremely success—" which was again cut off by a strange sort of strangled noise as he realised Harry Potter had just _licked his neck._

He could not even find the words to speak when the hand – so hot, almost feverishly hot – found its way to the inside of his thigh, rubbing up and down, dangerously close to _there_, _that_ right between his legs, and then – by no accident!- his fingers brushed, ever so lightly, over the bulge of his dick.

"Oh, God, help! Molestation! Rape!" Draco cried. And then, Merlin help him, a phrase he never wanted to utter in his entire life: "Help! Harry Potter is violating me!"

The next cries of "Help! Somebody! Please!" were completely cut off, abruptly, because a tongue that did not belong to him was _inside his mouth. _

At which point all physical, mental, and emotional processes completely ceased to function.

He had always thought that Harry Potter was a horrid kisser, in fact, he knew it to be true, having heard this from Pansy who had heard it from Marietta Edgecombe who had heard it from Lisa Turpin who had heard it from Cho Chang herself, which was practically the same as having been there to see it and laugh at it for himself.

Except Harry Potter now was kissing like he meant to prove all of them wrong, and, um, wow. Draco didn't like being wrong, since he tended to always be right, but he was man enough to admit that he was wrong if this happened to be the case.

Perhaps he might have been a _teensy_ bit wrong where Harry Potter's kissing technique was concerned.

He was not kissing back, of course, although perhaps his brain had gotten a tad distracted and forgotten to relay that message to his mouth. Because Potter kissed like he was trying to win something, kissed in a way that took no prisoners, so that there was no room for protests or even resistance, and each time they broke for air he pushed Draco back on the bed as if afraid that if he let him move even an inch, he'd escape.

It was better than kissing Bill. It was better than kissing Pansy, and Pansy was _good._ He couldn't even compare it to kissing any girl, because instead of a soft pair of breasts pushed against him there was hard, muscled chest, a strong hand that forcefully gripped his hip, another hand that roughly squeezed his rapidly hardening dick, made him groan and shudder all over.

Some minor part of his brain tried to remind him that this was Potter, whom he hated and whom he was very angry with, and he generally did not snog people whom he hated and was very angry with. This was true even if he couldn't remember why he was angry right at this very minute and even if he had a lot of trouble believing that he could truly hate anyone who was making him feel like this, hot and coiled up tight in his belly, arching up into every touch of callused palm on bare skin.

The rest of his brain, apparently, was currently on holiday, perhaps somewhere in Southern Italy.

His body felt entirely taken over. His skin flushed hot, tingling all over, aching for touch, and when Potter climbed on top of him, pressing his body hard against his, Draco moaned, horrifyingly, like the slut that he wasn't, and undulated his body in answering encouragement.

Then Potter was tugging his hair to expose his throat and Draco practically _purred_, which he reminded himself to flagellate himself for later, and Potter's teeth and mouth were on his throat with a hand on his cock and he yanked at his chains and practically howled with frustration as he writhed underneath him.

With a whisper the chains were undone and ohh, thank Merlin for wandless magic, because whatever was poking his thigh was definitely not a wand. Of the magical kind, at any rate.

His brain muzzily supplied some sort of tasteless crass reference to Harry Potter's Magical Wand and he allowed himself a breathless chuckle before he took advantage of his freedom and rolled them over, so that Potter was underneath him.

Turnabout was fair play, after all, and it wasn't like Potter was going to complain with the way that Draco was snogging him, his whole body writhing against his, too hot, too turned-on to do much more than to rut against him, rubbing their erections together. It shouldn't have been this hot but it was, just the feel of Potter's mouth, all lips and tongue and nipping teeth, the feel of the heat of Potter's body underneath him, digging his hands into strong shoulders, hips pistoning wildly as the sweet friction brought him closer and closer to completion.

Too soon, too soon his pleasure reached a crescendo, his orgasm hitting him hard, and with a gasp and a long moan he came, the sound of it muffled into Potter's slack mouth.

Potter's slack mouth.

His own mouth felt wet. He licked his lips and tasted blood. His whole mouth was filling with the taste of blood – eyes still squeezed shut, he raised a trembling hand to his mouth and it came away, dripping wet.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Potter lay on the bed underneath him, green eyes wide open but murky as stagnant pools choked with algae. The blue sheets were soaked deep purple, almost black, with blood.

He was ripped open from throat to groin, all his insides exposed, great flaps of skin pulled to the sides, as if he were the victim of a slapdash autopsy. He was partially eviscerated, great snakes of intestines pulled out half-way, a mess all over where his stomach used to be...one wrapped around Draco's wrist. His ribcage was broken, forced open. And his heart...

His heart was missing.

Draco coughed into his hand, and spat out a sliver of dark, dark wet meat.

He woke up screaming.

* * *

The most horrifying part of all was not even the gruesomeness of the nightmare, nor the fact that he had violently and brutally murdered Potter. Quite the contrary, he dreamt about murdering Potter all the time. Wanting to kill Potter in his dreams was actually normal.

No, the most sickening, appalling part of it was that Draco had woken up with wet, stained sheets.

Without even bothering to get properly dressed, Draco jumped out of bed, grabbed a robe, shoved aside the bureau from where it had been blocking the door, and threw open the door to his room. Of course Potter would be there, waiting for him in the hallway – doubtless he had heard Draco scream and his stupid bleeding heart (ha!) had demanded that he go check if everything was okay.

Indeed, the first thing Potter said to him was, "Malfoy, what's going on? Are you...are you all right?" with that stupid, stupid generous concern in his (alive!) green eyes.

It was also the last thing that Potter said to him, as Draco shoved past him and spat, "Get the _fuck_ away from me, Potter."

He went straight to the first fireplace that he knew, in the study, threw a handful of Floo Powder into it, dropped to his knees, and thrust his head into the flames.

"Shacklebolt!" he shouted, "I've suffered a change of heart! I'm willing to cooperate as long as it gets me _out _of this godforsaken house!"


End file.
